\Vill  Carle  ton 


THE  LIBRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CALIFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


FARM     BALLADS 


WILL   CARLETON 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  EDITION  FROM  NEW  PLATED 


NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

1899 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1873,  by 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


Copyright,  1882,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


Copyright,  1897,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 


'PS 


TO 

MY    MOTHER 


904503 


PREFACE 


THESE  poems  have  been  written  under  various, 
and  in  some  cases  difficult,  conditions  :  in  the 
open  air,  "  with  team  afield "  ;  in  the  student's 
den,  with  the  ghosts  of  unfinished  lessons  hover 
ing  gloomily  about ;  amid  the  rush  and  roar  of 
railroad  travel,  which  trains  of  thought  are  not 
prone  to  follow ;  and  in  the  editor's  sanctum, 
where  the  dainty  feet  of  the  Muses  do  not  al 
ways  deign  to  tread. 

The  author  has  been  asked,  by  friends  in  all 
parts  of  the  country,  to  put  his  poems  into  a 
more  durable  form  than  they  have  hitherto  pos 
sessed  ;  and  it  is  in  accordance  with  these  re 
quests  that  he  now  presents  "  Farm  Ballads  "  to 
the  public. 

1873 


PREFACE  TO   REVISED  EDITION 


IT  has  been  deemed  best  to  revise  and  enlarge 
this  book,  bringing  it  up  in  size  to  other  mem 
bers  of  the  "  FARM  SERIES." 

The  additional  numbers  are  of  two  classes  : 
poems  written  some  ten  years  ago,  and  omitted 
in  former  editions,  and  those  written  during  the 
past  year.  The  author  has  not  taken  pains  to 
distinguish  these  from  each  other  by  inserting 
dates ;  he  prefers  to  let  each  one  stand  upon 
its  own  merits,  or  stumble  against  its  own  de 
merits,  without  the  advantage  or  disadvantage 
of  a  published  birth-year. 

He  is  sorry  the  whole  work  is  not  better,  and 
still  rejoices  that  the  public  have  shown  a  con 
tinuous  appetite  for  the  book.  He  thanks  them, 
and  takes  courage  for  future  work. 

1882. 


CONTENTS 


FARM    BALLADS 

PAGE 

BETSEY  AND  I  ARE  OUT 3 

How  BETSEY  AND  I  MADE  UP 9 

GONE  WITH  A  HANDSOMER  MAN 14 

JOHNNY  RICH 20 

OUT  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 26 

OVER  THE  HILL  TO  THE  POOU-HOUSE 32 

OVER  THE  HILL  FROM  THE  POOR-HOUSE 37 

UNCLE  SAMMY 42 

TOM  WAS  COIN'  FOR  A  POET 48 

COIN'  HOME  TO-DAY.     .    • 52 

OUT  o'  THE  FIRE 55 

THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN 62 

THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 66 

THE  HOUSE  WHERE  WE  WERE  WED 75 

REUNITED 77 

How  JAMIE  CAME  HOME 84 

THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER.                             .  88 


viii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"WHY  SHOULD  THEY  KILL  MY  BABY?" 91 

THE  OLD  MAN  MEDITATES 93 

OTHER    POEMS 

APPLE-BLOSSOMS 103 

APPLES  GROWING 105 

THE  CHRISTMAS-TREE 107 

AUTUMN  DAYS 109 

THE  FADING  FLOWER no 

PICNIC  SAM 113 

ONE  AND  Two 120 

DEATH-DOOMED 122 

UP  THE  LINE 126 

FORWARD  ! 128 

THE  SHIP-BUILDER 132 

How  WE  KEPT  THE  DAY 136 

OUR  ARMY  OF  THE  DEAD     . 143 

"  MENDING  THE  OLD  FLAG  " .-    .    .  146 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


trDRAW  UP  THE  PAPERS,  LAWYER,  AND  HAKE  *EM 

GOOD  AND  STOUT'1 Frontispiece 

t:AND  KISSED  ME  FOR  THE  FIRST  TIME  IN  HALF- 
A-DOZEN  YEARS  !" Facing /.  12 

"CURSE  HER!  CURSE  HER!" "  16 

"  WHY,  JOHN,  WHAT  A  UTTER  HERE?"    ....  **  1 8 
"'TIS  A  HAIRY  SORT  OF  NIGHT  FOR  A  MAN  TO 

FACE  AND  FIGHT" "  22 

'"'  SETTLERS  CAME  TO  SEE  THAT  SHOW "...".  "  28 

"TILL  AT  LAST  HE  WENT  A-COURTIN*"  ....  "  34 

"WHO  SAT  WITH  HIM  LONG  AT  HIS  TABLE"  .    .  "  44 

"AG'IN"  UY  VOICE  AND  VOTE  " "  62 

"I'VE  BROUGHT  YOU  MY  LITTLE  BOY  JIM".    .    .  "  '  70 

"WHAT  WAS  MY  CRIME?" "  86 

"  THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER ".     .     .     .  "  88 
"YOUR  GRANDAM  MADE   HER  OWN   TRIM  WED 
DING-DRESS  " "  96 

"THE  SWEET,  LOVE-PLANTED  CHRISTMAS-TREE"  .  "  IO8 

"ROUGH  BRICKBAT  AMONG  PEARLS  " "  Il6 

"THEY  MENDED  AWAY  THROUGH  THE   SUMMER 

DAY" "  146 


FARM    BALLADS 


FARM   BALLADS 


BETSEY   AND   I   ARE    OUT 

DRAW  up  the  papers,  lawyer,  and  make  'em  good  and 

stout ; 
Things  at  home  are  crossways,  and  Betsey  and  I  are 

out. 
We,  who   have  worked   together  so  long  as  man  and 

wife, 
Must  pull  in  single  harness  the  rest  of  our  nat'ral  life. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  say  you.      I  swan  it's  hard  to 

tell! 
Most   of  the  years    behind    us   we've  passed   by  very 

well ; 

I  have  no  other  woman,  she  has  no  other  man — 
Only  we've  lived  together  as  long  as  we  ever  can. 

So  I  have  talked  with  Betsey,  and  Betsey  has  talked 

with  me, 
So  we've  agreed  together  that  we  can't  never  agree ; 


4  FARM   BALLADS 

Not   that  we've   catched    each    other    in    any   terrible 

crime ; 
We've  been  a-gathering  this  for  years,  a  little  at  a  time. 

There  was  a  stock  of  temper  we  both  had  for  a  start, 
Though  we  never  suspected  'twould  take  us  two  apart ; 
I  had  my  various  failings,  bred  in  the  flesh  and  bone ; 
And  Betsey,  like  all  good  women,  had  a  temper  of 
her  own. 

First  thing  I  remember  whereon  we  disagreed 

Was  something  concerning  heaven — a  difference  in  our 

creed ; 
We  arg'ed  the  thing  at  breakfast,  we  arg'ed  the  thing 

at  tea, 
And   the   more  we  arg'ed  the  question  the  more  we 

didn't  agree. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember  was  when  we  lost  a  cow ; 
She   had   kicked   the  bucket  for  certain,  the  question 

was  only — How  ? 

I  held  my  own  opinion,  and  Betsey  another  had ; 
And  when  we  were  done  a-talkin',  we  both  of  us  was 

mad. 

And  the  next  that  I  remember,  it  started  in  a  joke; 
But  full  for  a  week  it  lasted,  and  neither  of  us  spoke. 
And  the  next  was  when  I  scolded  because  she  broke 

a  bowl ; 
And  she  said  I  was  mean  and  stingy,  and  hadn't  any 

soul. 


BETSEY  AND   I   ARE  OUT  5 

And  so  that  bowl  kept  pourin'  dissensions  in  our  cup; 
And  so  that  blamed  old  cow  was  always  a-comin'  up; 
And  so  that  heaven  we  arg'ed  no  nearer  to  us  got, 
But  it  gave  us  a  taste  of  somethin'  a  thousand  times 
as  hot. 

And  so  the  thing  kept  workin',  and  all  the  self -same 

way : 

Always  somethin'  to  arg'e,  and  somethin'  sharp  to  say; 
And  down  on  us  came  the  neighbors,  a  couple  dozen 

strong, 
And   lent  their   kindest  sarvice  for  to  help  the  thing 

along. 

And  there  has  been  days  together — and  many  a  weary 

week — 
We  was  both  of  us  cross  and  crabbed,  and  both  too 

proud  to  speak; 
And  I  have  been  thinkin'  and  thinkin',  the  whole  of 

the  winter  and  fall, 
If  I  can't  live  kind  with  a  woman,  why,  then,  I  won't 

at  all. 

And   so   I  have  talked  with    Betsey,  and  Betsey  has 

talked  with  me, 
And   we    have   agreed   together   that  we   can't   never 

agree ; 
And   what    is  hers  shall  be  hers,   and  what   is   mine 

shall  be  mine ; 
And  I'll  put  it  in  the  agreement,  and  take  it  to  her 

to  sign. 


6  FARM    BALLADS 

Write  on  the  paper,  lawyer— the  very  first  paragraph— 
Of  all  the  farm  and  live-stock  that  she  shall  have  her 

half; 
For  she  has  helped  to  earn  it,  through  many  a  weary 

day : 
And   it's  nothing  more  than  justice  that   Betsey  has 

her  pay. 

Give  her  the  house  and  homestead :  a  man  can  thrive 

and  roam, 
But  women  are   skeery   critters,  unless   they   have   a 

home ; 
And   J  have  always   determined,  and   never  failed   to 

say, 
That  my  wife  never  should  want  a  home  if  I  was  taken 

away. 

There    is    a   little   hard    cash   that's    drawin'   tol'rable 

pay: 

Just  a  few  thousand  dollars  laid  by  for  a  rainy  day ; 
Safe  in  the  hands  of  good  men,  and  easy  to  get  at ; 
Put  in  another  clause  there,  and  give  her  half  of 

that. 

Yes,  I  see  you  smile,  Sir,  at  my  givin'  her  so  much ; 
Yes,  divorces  is  cheap,  Sir,  but  I  take  no  stock  in 

such ! 
True  and  fair  I  married  her,  when  she  was  blithe  and 

young ; 
And  Betsey  was  al'ays  good  to  me— exceptin'  with  her 

tongue. 


BETSEY   AND   I    ARE    OUT  7 

Once,  when  I  was  young  as  you,  and  not  so  smart, 

perhaps, 
For    me   she    mittened    a    lawyer,    and    several    other 

chaps ; 
And  all  of  them  fellers  was  flustered,  and  fairly  taken 

down, 
And   I  for  a  time  was  counted  the  luckiest  man  in 

town. 

Once  when  I  had  a  fever — I  won't  forget  it  soon — 
I  was  hot  as  a  basted  turkey  and  crazy  as  a  loon ! 
Never  an   hour   went    by   me  when    she   was   out  of 

sight- 
She  nursed  me  true  and  tender,  and  stuck  to  me  day 

and  night. 

And   if  ever  a   house   was   tidy,   and   ever  a   kitchen 

clean, 

Her  house  and  kitchen  was  tidy  as  any  I  ever  seen ; 
And  I  don't  complain  of  Betsey,  or  any  of  her  acts, 
Exceptin'  as  when  we've  quarrelled,  and  twitted  each 

other  on  facts. 

So  draw  up  the  papers,  lawyer :  and  I'll  go  home  to 
night, 

And  read  the  agreement  to  her,  and  see  if  it's  all 
right ; 

And  then,  in  the  mornin',  I'll  sell  to  a  tradin'  man  I 
know, 

And  kiss  the  child  that  was  left  to  us,  and  out  in  the 
world  I'll  go. 


8  FARM    BALLADS 

And  one   thing   put   in   the    paper,   that   first   to    me 

didn't  occur: 
That  when  I  am  dead  at  last  she  bring  me  back  to 

her ; 

And  lay  me  under  the  maples  I  planted  years  ago, 
When  she  and  I  was  happy ;  before  we  quarrelled  so. 

And  when  she  dies  I  wish  that  she  would  be  laid  by 
me; 

And,  lyin'  together  in  silence,  perhaps  we  might  agree; 

And  if  ever  we  meet  in  heaven,  I  wouldn't  think  it 
queer 

If  we  loved  each  other  the  better  for  what  we  quar 
relled  here. 


HOW  BETSEY  AND   I   MADE   UP 

GIVE  us  your  hand,  Mr.  Lawyer :  how  do  you  do  to 
day  ? 

You  drew  up  that  paper  —  I  s'pose  you  want  your 
pay. 

Don't  cut  down  your  figures ;  make  it  an  X  or  a  V ; 

For  that  'ere  written  agreement  was  just  the  makin' 
of  me ! 

Goin'  home  that  evenin'  I  tell  you  I  was  blue, 
Thinkin'  of   all    my  troubles,   and   what    I   was    goin' 

to  do ; 
And    if    my   hosses   hadn't    been    the    steadiest    team 

alive, 
They'd  've  tipped  me  over  for  certain  ;   for  I  couldn't 

see  where  to  drive. 

No — for  I  was  laborin'  under  a  heavy  load ; 
No — for  I  was  travellin'  an  entirely  different  road ; 
For  I  was  a-tracin'  over  the  path  of  our  lives  ag'in, 
And   observin'  where   we   missed   the  way,  and  where 
we  might  have  been. 


10  FARM    BALLADS 

And  many  a  corner  we'd  turned  that  just  to  a  quarrel 
led, 

When  I  ought  to  've  held  my  temper,  and  driven 
straight  ahead ; 

And  the  more  I  thought  it  over  the  more  these  mem 
ories  came, 

And  the  more  I  struck  the  opinion  that  I  was  the 
most  to  blame. 

And   things   I    had   long  forgotten   kept   risin'  in   my 

mind, 
Of  little   matters  betwixt  us,  where  Betsey  was  good 

and  kind ; 
And  these  things  flashed  all  through  me,  as  you  know 

things  sometimes  will 
When  a  feller's  alone  in  the  darkness,  and  everything 

is  still. 

"  But,"  says   I,  "  we're  too  far  along  to  take  another 

track, 
And  when  I  put  my  hand  to  the  plough  I  do  not  oft 

turn  back ; 
And   'tain't   an  uncommon  thing  now  for   couples  to 

smash  in  two;" 
And  so  I  set  my  teeth  together,  and  vowed  I'd  see  it 

through. 

And  when  I  come  in  sight  o'  the  house  'twas  some'at 

in  the  night, 
And  just   as    I   turned   a   hill-top    I   see   the    kitchen 

light; 


HOW   BETSEY   AND    I    MADE    UP  II 

Which   often   a  han'some   pictur'  to  a  hungry  person 

makes, 
But   it   don't  interest  a   man  so  much  that's  goin'  to 

pull  up  stakes. 

And  when  I  went  in  the  house,  the  table  was  set  for 

me — 
As   good   a   supper   's    ever   I    saw,   or   ever  want   to 

see; 
And  I  crammed  the  agreement  down  in  my  pocket  as 

well  as  ever  I  could, 
And  fell  to   eatin'  my  victuals,  which  somehow  didn't 

taste  good. 

And  Betsey,  she  pretended  to  be  lookin'  all  round  the 

house ; 
But  she  watched  my  side  coat-pocket  like  a  cat  would 

•  watch  a  mouse ; 
And    then    she    went    to    foolin'     a    little    with     her 

cup, 
And   intently  readin'  a  newspaper — a-holdin'  it  wrong 

side  up. 

And   when   I'd   done  with    my   supper,  I   drawed   the 

agreement  out, 
And   give   it  to  her  without  a  word,  for  she   knowed 

what  'twas  about ; 
And  then  I  hummed  a  little  tune ;  but  now  and  then 

a  note 
Got   bu'sted    by  some   animal   that   hopped  up  in  my 

throat. 


12  FARM    BALLADS 

Then  Betsey  she  went  an'  took  her  specs  from  off  the 

mantel-shelf, 

And  read  the  agreement  over  quite  softly  to  herself; 
Read  it  by  little  and  little;  for  her  eyes  is  gettin'  old, 
And  lawyers'  writin'  ain't  no  print,  especially  when  it's 

cold. 

And  after  she'd  read  a  little  she  give  my  arm  a  touch, 
And  kindly  said  she  was  afraid  I  was  'lowin'  her  too 

much ; 
But  when  she  was  through  she  went  for  me,  her  face 

a-streamin'  with  tears, 
And  kissed  me  for  the  first  time  in  half-a-dozen  years ! 

I  don't  know  what  you'll  think,  Sir — I  didn't  come  to 

inquire — 
But  I  picked  up  that  agreement  and  stuffed  it  in  the 

fire; 
And  I  told  her  we'd  bury  the  hatchet  alongside  of  the 

cow ; 
And  we  struck  an   agreement  never  to  have  another 

row. 

And   I   told  her  in  the  future  I  wouldn't  speak  cross 

nor  rash 
If  half  the  crockery  in  the  house  was  broken  all  to 

smash ; 
And  she  said,  in  regards  to  heaven,  we'd  try  and  pro\ 

its  worth 
By  startin'  a  branch  establishment,  arid  runnin'  it  here 

on  earth. 


AND    KISSED    ME    FOR   THE    FIRST   TIME   IN 
HALF-A-DOZEN    YEARS  !" 


HOW  BETSEY  AND  I    MADE    UP  13 

And  so  we  sat  a-talkin'  three-quarters  of  the  night, 
And  opened  our  hearts  to  each  other  until  they  both 

grew  light ; 
And   the  days  when  I  was  winnin'  her  away  from  so 

many  men 
Was  nothin'  to  that  evenin'  I  courted  her  over  again. 

Next  mornin'  an  ancient  virgin  took  pains  to  call  on 
us, 

Her  lamp  all  trimmed  and  a-burnin'  —  to  kindle  an 
other  fuss ; 

But  when  she  went  to  pryin'  'round  and  openin*  up 
old  sores, 

My  Betsey  rose  politely,  and  showed  her  out-of-doors ! 

Since  then  I  don't  deny  but  we've  had  a  word  or  two ; 
But  we've  got  our  eyes  wide  open  now,  and  know  just 

what  to  do : 
When  one  speaks  cross  the  other  just  meets  it  with 

a  laugh, 
And    the    first   one's   ready  to   give    up   considerable 

more  than  half. 

So  make  out  your  bill,  Mr.  Lawyer :  don't  stop  short 

of  an  X ; 
Make   it  more   if   you   want  to,  for    I    have   got   the 

checks ! 
I'm  richer  than  a  National  Bank,  with  all  its  treasures 

told: 
For  I've  got  a  wife  at  home  now  that's  worth  her 

weight  in  gold. 


GONE  WITH   A   HANDSOMER   MAN 

JOHN 

I'VE  worked  in  the  field  all  day,  a-ploughin'  the  "  stony 

streak  " ; 
I've  scolded   my  team  till   I'm   hoarse;   I've   tramped 

till  my  legs  are  weak  ; 

I've  choked  a  dozen  swears  (so  's  not  to  tell  Jane  fibs) 
When  the  plough-p'int  struck  a  stone  and  the  handles 

punched  my  ribs. 

I've  put  my  team  in  the  barn,  and  rubbed  their  sweaty 

coats ; 

I've  fed  'em  a  heap  of  hay  and  half  a  bushel  of  oats; 
And  to  see  the  way  they  eat  makes  me  like  eatin'  feel, 
And  Jane  won't  say  to-night  that  I  don't  make  out  a 

meal. 

Well  said !  the  door  is  locked !  but  here  she's  left  the 

key, 

Under  the  step,  in  a  place  known  only  to  her  and  me ; 
I  wonder  who's  dyin'  or  dead,  that  she's  hustled  off 

pell-mell : 
But  here  on  the  table's  a  note,  and  probably  this  will 

tell. 


GONE   WITH    A    HANDSOMER    MAN  15 

Good  God !  my  wife  is  gone !  my  wife  is  gone  astray ! 
The  letter  it  says,  "Good-bye,  for  I'm  a-going  away; 
I've  lived  with  you  six  months,  John,  and  so  far  I've 

been  true ; 
But   I'm   going  away  to-day  with   a   handsomer   man 

than  you." 

A  han'somer  man  than  me !    Why,  that  ain't  much  to 

say; 
There's  han'somer   men   than   me  go  past  here  every 

day. 
There's  han'somer  men  than  me — I  ain't  of  the  han'- 

some  kind  ; 
But  a  lovin'er  man  than  I  was  I  guess  she'll  never  find  ! 

Curse  her!  curse  her!  I  say,  and  give  my  curses  wings! 

May  the  words  of  love  I've  spoke  be  changed  to  scor 
pion-stings  ! 

Oh,  she  filled  my  heart  with  joy,  she  emptied  my  heart 
of  doubt, 

And  now,  with  a  scratch  of  a  pen,  she  lets  my  heart's 
blood  out ! 

Curse  her!  curse  her!  say  I;  she'll  some  time  rue  this 

day ; 
She'll  some  time  learn  that  hate  is   a  game   that  two 

can  play; 
And   long  before  she  dies  she'll  grieve  she   ever  was 

born ; 
For  I'll  plough  her  grave  with  hate,  and  seed  it  down 

to  scorn ! 


!6  FARM    BALLADS 

As  sure  as  the  world  goes  on,  there'll  come  a  time 

when  she 
Will  read   the   devilish   heart   of  that  han'somer  man 

than  me ; 

And  there'll  be  a  time  when  he  will  find,  as  others  do, 
That  she  who  is  false  to  one  can  be  the  same  with  two! 

And  when  her  face  grows  pale,  and  when   her  eyes 

grow  dim, 

And  when  he  is  tired  of  her  and  she  is  tired  of  him, 
She'll  do  what  she   ought  to  have   done,  and   coolly 

count  the  cost ; 
And  then  she'll  see  things  clear,  and  know  what  she 

has  lost. 

And  thoughts  that  are  now  asleep  will  wake  up  in  her 
mind, 

And  she  will  mourn  and  cry  for  what  she  has  left  be 
hind  ; 

And  maybe  she'll  sometimes  long  for  me  —  for  me  — 
but  no ! 

I've  blotted  her  out  of  my  heart,  and  I  will  not  have 
it  so! 

And  yet  in  her  girlish  heart  there  was  somethin'  or 

other  she  had 

That  fastened  a  man  to  her,  and  wasn't  entirely  bad ; 
And  she  loved  me  a  little,  I  think,  although  it  didn't 

last; 
But  I  mustn't  think  of  these  things— I've  buried  'em 

in  the  past. 


GONE  WITH   A   HANDSOMER  MAN  IJ 

I'll  take  my  hard  words  back,  nor  make  a  bad  matter 

worse  ; 
She'll  have  trouble  enough,  poor  thing;  she  shall  not 

have  my  curse ; 
But  I'll  live  a  life  so  square  —  and  I  well  know  that  I 

can — 
That  she  will  always  grieve  that   she  went  with  that 

han'somer  man. 

Ah,  here  is  her  kitchen  dress!  it  makes  my  poor  eyes 

blur; 

It  seems,  when  I  look  at  that,  as  if  'twas  holdin'  her. 
And  here  are  her  week-day  shoes,  and  there  is  her 

week-day  hat, 
And  yonder's  her  weddin'-gown :  I  wonder  she  didn't 

take  that ! 

'Twas  only  this  mornin'  she  came  and  called  me  her 

"dearest  dear," 

And  said  I  was  makin'  for  her  a  regular  paradise  here : 
O  God !  if  you  want  a  man  to  sense  the  pains  of  hell, 
Before  you  pitch  him  in  just  keep  him  in  heaven  a 

spell ! 

Good  -  bye  —  I   wish   that   death    had    severed    us  two 

apart ; 
You've  lost  a  worshipper  here — you've  crushed  a  lovin' 

heart. 
I'll  worship  no  woman  again !  but  I  guess  I'll  learn  to 

pray, 
And  kneel  as  you  used  to  kneel  before  you  run  away. 


I 8  FARM    BALLADS 

And  if  I  thought  I  could  bring  my  words  on  heaven 

to  bear, 

And  if  I  thought  I  had  some  influence  up  there, 
I  would  pray  that  I  might  be,  if  it  only  could  be  so, 
As  happy  and  gay  as  I  was  a  half  an  hour  ago ! 


JANE  (entering} 

Why,  John,  what  a  litter  here !  you've  thrown  things 

all  around  ! 
Come,  what's  the  matter  now?   and  what  've  you  lost 

or  found  ? 

And  here's  my  father  here,  a-waiting  for  supper,  too ; 
I've  been  a-riding  with   him  —  he's  that   "handsomer 

man  than  you." 

Ha !  ha !     Pa,  take  a  seat,  while  I  put  the  kettle  on, 
And  get  things  ready  for  tea,  and  kiss  my  dear  old 

John. 
Why,  John,  you   look   so  strange  !     Come,  what    has 

crossed  your  track  ? 
I  was  only  a-joking,  you  know;  I'm  willing  to  take  it 

back. 


JOHN  (aside) 

Well,  now,  if  this  ain't  a  joke,  with   rather  a  bitter 

cream ! 
It  seems  as  if  I'd  woke  from  a  mighty  ticklish  dream; 


GONE  WITH   A   HANDSOMER  MAN  19 

And  I  think  she  "  smells  a  rat,"  for  she  smiles  at  me 

so  queer ; 
I  hope  she  don't;  good  Lord!  I  hope  that  they  didn't 

hear ! 

'Twas  one  of  her  practical  drives — why  didrit  I  under 
stand  ! 

I'll  never  break  sod  again  till  I  get  the  lay  of  the 
land. 

But  one  thing's  settled  with  me :  to  appreciate  heaven 
well, 

Tis  good  for  a  man  to  have  some  fifteen  minutes  of 
hell! 


JOHNNY   RICH 

RAISE  the  light  a  little,  Jim, 
For  it's  getting  rather  dim, 

And,  with    such   a   storm   a-howlin',   'twill    not   do   to 
douse  the  glim  ; 

Hustle  down  the  curtains,  Lu ; 
Poke  the  fire  a  little,  Su  ; 

This  is  somethin'  of  a  flurry,  mother,  somethin'  of  a — 
whew ! — 

Goodness  gracious,  how  it  pours ! 
How  it  beats  ag'in  the  doors  ! 

You  will  have  a  hard  one,  Jimmy,  when  you  go  to  do 
the  chores ! 

Do  not  overfeed  the  gray ; 
Give  a  plenty  to  the  bay ; 

And  be  careful  with  your  lantern  when  you  go  among 
the  hay. 

See  the  horses  have  a  bed  ^ 

When  you've  got  'em  fairly  fed  ; 

Feed   the  cows   that's   in    the   stable,   and    the   sheep 
that's  in  the  shed ; 


JOHNNY    RICH  21 

Give  the  spotted  cow  some  meal, 

Where  the  brindle  cannot  steal ; 

For  she's  greedy  as  a  porker,  and  as  slipp'ry  as  an  eel. 

Hang  your  lantern  by  the  ring, 
On  a  nail,  or  on  a  string ; 

For  the  Durham  calf  '11  bunt  it,  if  there's  any  such  a 
thing: 

He's  a  handsome  one  to  see, 
And  a  knowin'  one  is  he: 

I   stooped  over  t'other  morning,  and  he  up  and  went 
for  me: 

Rover  thinks  he  hears  a  noise! 

Just  keep  still  a  minute,  boys; 

Nellie,  hold  your  tongue  a  second,  and  be  silent  with 
your  toys. 

Stop  that  barkin',  now,  you  whelp, 

Or  I'll  kick  you  till  you  yelp! 
Yes,  I  hear  it;  'tis  somebody  that  is  callin'  out  for  help. 

Get  the  lantern,  Jim  and  Tom; 
Mother,  keep  the  babies  calm, 

And  we'll  follow  up  that  halloa,  and  we'll  see  where  it 
is  from. 

Tis  a  hairy  sort  of  night 
For  a  man  to  face  and  fight ; 

And  the  wind  is  blowin' —    Hang  it,  Jimmy,  bring  an 
other  light ! 


22  FARM    BALLADS 

Ah !  'twas  you,  then,  Johnny  Rich, 
Yelling  out  at  such  a  pitch, 

For  a  decent  man  to  help  you,  while  you  fell  into  the 
ditch ! 

Tisn't  quite  the  thing  to  say: 
But  we  ought  to've  let  you  lay, 

While  your   drunken   carcass    died    a-drinkin'  water, 
anyway ! 

And  to  see  you  on  my  floor, 
And  to  hear  the  way  you  snore, 

Now  we've  lugged  you  under  shelter,  and  the  danger 
all  is  o'er ; 

And  you  lie  there,  quite  resigned, 
Whiskey  deaf,  and  whiskey  blind, 

And  it  will  not  hurt  your  feelin's,  so  I  guess  I'll  free 
my  mind. 

Do  you  mind,  you  thievin'  dunce, 
How  you  robbed  my  orchard  once, 
Takin'   all  the   biggest  apples,  leavin'   all   the   littlest 
runts  ? 

Do  you  mind  my  melon-patch — 
How  you  gobbled  the  whole  batch, 
Stacked  the  vines,  and  sliced  the  greenest  melons,  just 
to  raise  the  scratch  ? 

Do  you  think,  you  drunken  wag, 
It  was  anything  to  brag, 

To  be  cornered  in  my  hen  -  roost,  with  two  pullets  in 
a  bag? 


JOHNNY    RICH  23 

You  are  used  to  dirty  dens ; 
You  have  often  slept  in  pens; 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now,  and  roost  you 
with  the  hens  ! 

Do  you  call  to  mind  with -me 
How,  one  night,  you  and  your  three 
Took   my  wagon   all  to    pieces   for   to  hang  it  on  a 
tree  ? 

How  you  hung  it  up,  you  eels, 
Straight  and  steady,  by  the  wheels? 
I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out  there  now,  and  hang  you 
by  your  heels ! 

How,  the  Fourth  of  last  July, 
When  you  got  a  little  high, 

You  went  back  of  Wilson's  counter  when  you  thought 
he  wasn't  nigh  ? 

How  he  heard  some  specie  chink, 
And  was  on  you  in  a  wink, 

And  you  promised  if  he'd  hush  it  that  you  never  more 
would  drink? 

Do  you  mind  our  temperance  hall  ? 
How  you're  always  sure  to  call, 

And  recount  your  reformation  with  the  biggest  speech 
of  all  ? 

How  you  talk,  and  how  you  sing, 
That  the  pledge  is  just  the  thing — 
How  you  sign  it  every  winter,  and  then  smash  it  every 
spring? 


24  FARM    BALLADS 

Do  you  mind  how  Jennie  Green 
Was  as  happy  as  a  queen, 

When  you  walked  with  her  one  Sunday,  looking  sober, 
straight,  and  clean  ? 

How  she  cried  out  half  her  sight, 
When  you  staggered  by,  next  night, 
With   a  shade  across  your  peepers,  that  you'd  picked 
up  in  a  fight  ? 

How  our  hearts  with  pleasure  warmed 
When  your  mother,  though  it  stormed, 
Run  up  here  one  day  to  tell  us  that  you  truly  had  re 
formed  ? 

How  that  very  self-same  day, 
When  upon  her  homeward  way, 

She  ran  on  you,  where  you'd  hidden,  full  three-quar 
ters  o'er  the  bay  ? 

Oh,  you  little  whiskey-keg ! 
Oh,  you  horrid  little  egg ! 

You're  a-goin'  to   destruction  with  your  swiftest  foot 
and  leg! 

I've  a  mind  to  take  you  out 
Underneath  the  water-spout, 

Just    to    rinse    you    up   a   little,   so    you'll   know  what 
you're  about!, 

But  you've  got  a  handsome  eye ; 
And,  although  I  can't  tell  why, 

Somethin'  somewhere   in  you  always  lets  you  get  an 
other  try  : 


JOHNNY    RICH  25 

So,  for  all  that  I  have  said, 
I'll  not  douse  you ;  but,  instead, 

I  will   strip  you,  I  will  rub  you,  I  will   put  you   into 
bed! 


OUT   OF   THE   OLD   HOUSE 

OUT  of  the  old   house,  Nancy — moved   up  into  the 

new ; 

All  the  hurry  and  worry  is  just  as  good  as  through! 
Only  a  bounden  duty  remains  for  you  and  I— 
And  that's  to  stand   on   the  door-step,  here,  and  bid 

the  old  house  good-bye. 

What  a  shell  we've  lived  in,  these  nineteen  or  twenty 

years ! 
Wonder  it  hadn't  smashed  in,  and  tumbled  about  our 

ears ; 

Wonder  it's  stuck  together,  and  answered  till  to-day ; 
But  every  individual  log  was  put  up  here  to  stay. 

Things    looked    rather    new,    though,    when    this    old 

house  was  built ; 
And    things    that    blossomed    you,   though,   would  've 

made  some  women  wilt ; 
And   every   other   day,   then,    as    sure   as    day   would 

break, 
My    neighbor    Ager    come    this    way,    invitin'    me    to 

"  shake." 


OUT   OF  THE  OLD   HOUSE  27 

And   you,  for  want  of  neighbors,  was  sometimes  blue 

and  sad, 
For  wolves  and  bears  and  wild  -  cats  was  the  nearest 

ones  you  had  ; 
But  lookin'  ahead  to  the  clearin',  we  worked  with  all 

our  might, 
Until  we  was  fairly  out  of  the  woods,  and  things  was 

goin'  right. 

Look  up  there  at  our  new  house ! — ain't  it  a  thing  to 
see? 

Tall  and  big  and  handsome,  and  new  as  new  can  be ; 

All  in  apple-pie  order,  especially  the  shelves, 

And  never  a  debt  to  say  but  what  we  own  it  all  our 
selves. 

Look  at  our  old  log- house — how  little  it  now  ap 
pears  ! 

But  it's  never  gone  back  on  us  for  nineteen  or  twenty 
years ; 

An'  I  won't  go  back  on  it  now,  or  go  to  pokin'  fun : 

There's  such  a  thing  as  praisin'  a  thing  for  the  good 
that  it  has  done. 

Probably  you  remember  how  rich  we  was  that  night, 
When  we  was  fairly  settled,  an'  had  things  snug  and 

right : 
We  feel  as  proud  as  you  please,  Nancy,  over  our  house 

that's  new, 
But  we  felt  as  proud  under  this  old  roof,  and  a  good 

deal  prouder,  too. 


28  FARM    BALLADS 

Never  a  handsomer  house  was  seen  beneath  the  sun : 
Kitchen  and  parlor  and  bedroom — we  had  'em — all  in 

one ; 
And  the  fat  old  wooden  clock  that  we  brought  when 

we  came  West, 
Was  tickin'  away  in   the   corner  there,  and  doin'  its 

level  best. 

Trees  was  all  around  us,  a-whisperin'  cheering  words; 
Loud  was  the  squirrel's  chatter,  and  sweet  the  songs 

of  birds ; 
And   home  grew  sweeter  and   brighter  —  our  courage 

began  to  mount — 
And  things  looked  hearty  and  happy  then,  and  work 

appeared  to  count. 

And   here   one   night   it    happened,    when    things  was 

goin'  bad, 

We  fell  in  a  deep  old  quarrel — the  first  we  ever  had ; 
And  when  you  give  out  and  cried,  then  I,  like  a  fool, 

give  in ; 
And  then  we  agreed  to  rub  all  out,  and  start  out  life 

ag'in. 

Here  it  was,  you  remember,  we  sat  when  the  day  was 

done, 
And  you  was  a-makin'  clothing  that  wasn't  for  either 

one ; 

And  often  a  soft  word  of  love  I  was  soft  enough  to  say, 
And  the  wolves  was  howlin'  in  the  woods  not  twenty 

rods  away. 


OUT  OF  THE    OLD    HOUSE  29 

Then  our  first-born  baby — a  regular  little  joy — 
Though  I  fretted  a  little  because  it  wasn't  a  boy : 
Wa'n't  she  a  little  flirt,  though,  with  all  her  pouts  and 

smiles? 
Why,  settlers  came  to  see  that  show  a  half  a  dozen 

miles. 

Yonder  sat  the  cradle — a  homely,  home-made  thing, 
And   many  a  night  I   rocked  it,  providin'  you  would 

sing; 
And   many   a  little   stranger  brought  up   with   us   to 

stay — 
And  so  that  cradle,  for  many  a  year,   was  never  put 

away. 

How  they  kept  a-comin',  so  cunnin'  and  fat  and  small ! 
How  they   growed !    'twas   a   wonder   how   we    found 

room  for  'em  all ; 
But  though  the  house  was  crowded,  it  empty  seemed 

that  day 
When  Jennie  lay  by  the  fireplace,  there,  and  moaned 

her  life  away. 

Right  in  there  the  preacher,  with  Bible  and  hymn- 
book,  stood, 

"  'Twixt  the  dead  and  the  living,"  and  "  hoped  'twould 
do  us  good ;" 

And  the  little  white-wood  coffin  on  the  table  there  was 
set, 

And  now  as  I  rub  my  eyes  it  seems  as  if  I  could  see 
it  yet. 


30  FARM    BALLADS 

And  then  that  fit  of  sickness  it  brought  on  you,  you 

know: 

Just  by  a  thread  you  hung,  and  you  e'en-a'most  let  go ; 
And  here  is  the  spot  I  tumbled,  an'  give  the  Lord  his 

due, 
When  the  doctor  said  the  fever'd  turned,  an'  he  could 

fetch  you  through. 

Yes,  a  deal  has  happened  to  make  this  old  house  dear: 
Christenin's,  funerals,  weddin's  —  what  haven't  we  had 

here  ? 

Not  a  log  in  this  buildin'  but  its  memories  has  got, 
And  not  a  nail  in  this  old  floor  but  touches  a  tender 

spot. 

Out   of  the  old  house,  Nancy  —  moved   up   into   the 

new ; 

All  the  hurry  and  worry  is  just  as  good  as  through ; 
But  I  tell  you  a  thing  right  here,  that  I  ain't  ashamed 

to  say : 
There's  precious  things  in  this  old  house  we  never  can 

take  away. 

Here   the  old   house  will   stand,   but  not  as   it  stood 

before : 
Winds  will  whistle  through  it,  and  rains  will  flood  the 

floor ; 
And  over  the  hearth,  once  blazing,  the  snow-drifts  oft 

will  pile, 
And  the  old  thing  will  seem  to  be  a-mournin'  all  the 

while. 


OUT    OF  THE    OLD    HOUSE  3! 

Fare  you  well,  old  house !  you're  naught  that  can  feel 

or  see, 
But  you  seem  like  a  human  being  —  a  dear  old  friend 

to  me ; 
And  we  never  will  have  a  better  home,  if  my  opinion 

stands, 
Until  we  commence  a-keepin'  house  in  the  house  not 

made  with  hands. 


OVER   THE   HILL   TO   THE   POOR-HOUSE 

OVER   the  hill  to   the   poor-house    I'm    trudgin'    my 

weary  way — 

I,  a  woman  of  seventy,  and  only  a  trifle  gray — 
I,  who  am  smart  an'  chipper,  for  all  the  years  I've  told, 
As  many  another  woman  that's  only  half  as  old. 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  —  I  can't  quite  make 

it  clear ! 
Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  —  it  seems  so  horrid 

queer ! 

Many  a  step  I've  taken,  a-toilin'  to  and  fro, 
But  this  is  a  sort  of  journey  I  never  thought  to  go. 

What  is  the  use  of  heapin'  on  me  a  pauper's  shame? 
Am  I  lazy  or  crazy?  am  I  blind  or  lame? 
True,  I  am  not  so  supple,  nor  yet  so  awful  stout ; 
But  charity  ain't  no  favor,  if  one  can  live  without. 

I  am  ready  and  willin'  an'  anxious  any  day 
To  work  for  a  decent  livin',  an'  pay  my  honest  way ; 
For  I  can  earn  my  victuals,  an'  more  too,  I'll  be  bound, 
If  anybody  is  willin'  to  only  have  me  round. 


OVER  THE    HILL  TO  THE  POOR-HOUSE  33 

Once   I   was  young  an'   han'some  —  I   was,   upon    my 

soul — 

Once  my  cheeks  was  roses,  my  eyes  as  black  as  coal ; 
And  I  can't  remember,  in  them  days,  of  hearin'  people 

say, 
For  any  kind  of  a  reason,  that  I  was  in  their  way ! 

Tain't  no  use  of  boastin",  or  talkin'  over  free, 
But  many  a  house  an'  home  was  open  then  to  me ; 
Many  a  han'some  offer  I  had  from  likely  men, 
And  nobody  ever  hinted  that  I  was  a  burden  then  ! 

And  when   to  John  I  was  married,  sure  he  was  good 

and  smart, 
But   he  and  all  the  neighbors  would  own  I  done  my 

part ; 

For  life  was  all  before  me,  an'  I  was  young  an'  strong, 
And    I  worked    my  best  an'  smartest  in  tryin'  to  get 

along. 

And   so  we  worked   together:  and  life  was  hard,  but 

gay, 

With  now  and  then  a  baby  to  cheer  us  on  our  way; 
Till  we   had   half  a  dozen :  an'  all  growed   clean   an' 

neat, 
An'  went  to  school  like  others,  an'  had  enough  to  eat. 

An'   so   we  worked   for  the   child'rn,   and    raised    'em 

every  one ; 
Worked  for  'em  summer  and  winter,  just  as  we  ought 

to  've  done ; 

3 


34  FARM    BALLADS 

Only  perhaps  we  humored  'em,  which  some  good  folks 

condemn ; 
But  every  couple's  own  child'rn's  a  heap  the  dearest 

to  them ! 

Strange   how    much   we   think    of    our    blessed    little 

ones ! — 
I'd  have  died  for  my  daughters,  I'd  have  died  for  my 

sons; 
And  God  he  made  that  rule  of  love ;   but  when  we're 

old  and  gray, 
I've  noticed  it  sometimes  somehow  fails  to  work  the 

other  way. 

Strange,  another  thing:  when  our  boys  an'  girls  was 

grown, 
And    when,   exceptin'    Charley,    they'd    left    us    there 

alone  ; 
When  John    he    nearer  an"   nearer   came,    an'   dearer 

seemed  to  be, 
The  Lord — of  Hosts!— He  came  one  day  an'  took  him 

away  from  me ! 

Still  I  was  bound  to  struggle,  an'  never  to  cringe  or 

fall- 
Still  I  worked   for  Charley,  for  Charley  was  now  my 

all; 
And  Charley  was  pretty  good  to   me,  with  scarce   a 

word  or  frown, 
Till  at   last  he  went   a-courtin',  and    brought   a  wife 

from  town. 


OVER  THE  HILL  TO    THE  POOR-HOUSE  35 

She  was  somewhat  dressy,  an'  hadn't  a  pleasant  smile — 
She  was  quite  conceity,  and  carried  a  heap  o'  style ; 
But  if  ever  I  tried  to  be  friends,  I  did  with  her,  I  know; 
But  she  was  hard  and  haughty,  an'  we  couldn't  make 
it  go. 

She  had  an  edication,  an'  that  was  good  for  her ; 
But  when   she    twitted    me    on    mine,   'twas    carryin' 

things  too  fur; 
An'    I   told    her   once,  'fore    company    (an'   it    almost 

made  her  sick), 
That  I  never  swallowed  a  grammar,  or  'et  a  'rithmetic. 

So  'twas  only  a  few  days  before  the  thing  was  done — 
They  was  a  family  of  themselves,  and  I  another  one ; 
And  a  very  little  cottage  one  family  will  do, 
But  I  never  have  seen  a  mansion  that  was  big  enough 
for  two. 

An'    I    never    could    speak   to    suit    her,   never   could 

please  her  eye, 

An'  it  made  me  independent,  an'  then  I  didn't  try; 
But  I  was  terribly  humbled,  an'  felt  it  like  a  blow, 
When  Charley  turned  ag'in  me,  an'  told  me  I  could  go! 

I    went   to   live  with   Susan :   but   Susan's    house  was 

small, 

And  she  was  always  a-hintin'  how  snug  it  was  for  us  all ; 
And  what  with  her  husband's  sisters,  and  what  with 

child'rn  three, 
'T\vas  easy  to  discover  there  wasn't  room  for  me. 


36  FARM    BALLADS 

An'  then  I  went  with  Thomas,  the  oldest  son  I've  got: 
For  Thomas's  buildings  'd  cover  the  half  of  an  acre 

lot; 
But  all  the  child'rn  was  on  me — I  couldn't  stand  their 

sauce — 
And  Thomas  said  I  needn't  think  I  was  comin'  there 

to  boss. 

An*  then  I  wrote  to  Rebecca,  my  girl  who  lives  out 

West, 
And  to  Isaac,  not  far  from  her — some  twenty  miles  at 

best; 
And  one  of  'em  said  'twas  too  warm  there   for  any 

one  so  old, 
And  t'other  had  an  opinion  the  climate  was  too  cold. 

So  they  have  shirked  and  slighted  me,  an'  shifted  me 

about — 
So  they  have  wellnigh  soured  me,  an'  wore  my  old 

heart  out; 
But  still  I've  borne  up  pretty  well,  an'  wasn't  much 

put  down, 
Till  Charley  went  to  the  poor -master,  an'  put  me  on 

the  town ! 

Over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  —  my  child'rn  dear, 

good-by ! 
Many  a  night  I've  watched  you  when  only  God  was 

nigh; 

And  God  '11  judge  between  us;  but  I  will  al'ays  pray 
That  you  shall  never  suffer  the  half  I  do  to-day! 


OVER  THE   HILL  FROM   THE   POOR-HOUSE 

OVER  the  hill  to  the  poor-house  /  went,  one  winter's 

day: 

I — who  was  always  considered  a  "  bad  stick  "  anyway ; 
I  —  who  was   always  gettin'  in   a  large  assortment  of 

tricks, 
And  always  sure  to  be  quoted  as  "  the  worst  of  the 

Deacon's  six." 

Tom  was  a  steady  fellow,  and  saved  up  all  he  got ; 
But  when   it  came  to   payin'   his   debts,  he'd   always 

rather  not ; 
And  Isaac  could  quote  the  Scriptures,  an'  never  forgot 

nor  slipped ; 
But  "Honor  thy  father  and  mother"  was  one  of  the 

verses  he  skipped. 

An'  as  for  Susan  an'  'Becca,  their  hearts,  as  one  might 

say, 
Was  good — what  there   was  of   'em  —  which   wasn't 

much,  anyway ; 
And  all  of  our  little  family  was  good  as  you'll  often 

see, 
Exceptin*  one  poor  fellow— and  that  'ere  one  was  me. 


38  FARM    BALLADS 

All  of  the  rest  was  steady,  an'  nice,  an'  good,  an'  right ; 
All  of  the  rest  was  sober — but  I  was  mainly  tight; 
An'  when  I  "  borrowed  "  two  horses,  or  helped  to,  just 

for  fun — 
If  I  hadn't  been  drunk  as  blazes,  it  never  would  have 

been  done. 

But  when  they  sent  me  to  prison,  the  hardest  grief  I 

felt 

Was  when  my  poor  old  mother  beside  me  feebly  knelt, 
And  cried  and  prayed  all  round  me,  till  I  got  melted 

down, 
And  cried  as  I  wouldn't  have  cried  that  day  for  half 

the  horses  in  town. 

And  with  my  left  arm  round  her — my  right  hand  lifted 

high— 

I  swore  henceforth  to  be  honest,  and  sober  live  and  die; 
And  I  went  and  served  my  term  out,  although  'twas 

a  bitter  pill, 
Which    many    fellows    ought    to    take    who    probably 

never  will. 

And  when  I  had  served  my  sentence,  I  thought 
'twould  answer  the  best 

To  take  the  advice  of  Greeley :  "  Go  West,  young  man, 
go  West !" 

And  how  I  came  to  prosper  there,  I  never  could  un 
derstand  ; 

But  Fortune  seemed  to  like  me — she  gave  me  a  win 
ning  hand ! 


OVER  THE   HILL   FROM   THE   POOR-HOUSE  39 

And    year  after  year    I   prospered,  and    kept   a-going 

ahead  ; 
And  wrote  to  a  trusty  neighbor  East,  to  tell  'em  that 

I  was  dead ; 
And  died  a  good  straight  fellow ;  for  I  knew  it  would 

please  them  more 
Than  if   I  had  lived  to  a   hundred   and   twelve  —  the 

chap  that  I  was  before ! 

But  when  this  trusty  neighbor  —  he  wrote   a  line   to 

me — 
"Your  mother's   in   the   poor-house,  a-pining  away," 

says  he : 
To   keep  dead  any  longer — I   knew  that   it  wouldn't 

be  right ; 
So  I'd  a  private  resurrection,  and  started  for  her  that 

night. 

And  when   I  came  in  the  old  town,  my  first  act  was 

to  buy 
A  snug  and  handsome  cottage,  which  rather  seemed 

to  my  eye 
To  look  just  like  the  old  one ;   I    finished   it  off  the 

same ; 
You  couldn't  have  told  the  difference — if  you  could,  / 

wasn't  to  blame ! 

The  same  old  clock  in  the  corner ;  the  fireplace,  wide 
and  high, 

Sent  up  the  smoke  and  cinders,  and  flung  them  tow 
ards  the  sky; 


40  FARM    BALLADS 

From  garret  down  to  cellar  —  'twas  all  the  self-  same 

thing : 
Twas    good    enough    for    the    President  —  'twas    fine 

enough  for  a  king! 

Then  over  the  hill  to  the  poor-house,  one  blustering 

winter  day, 

With  two  fleet  nags  and  a  cutter,  I  swiftly  took  my  way. 
The  fleetest  nags  in  the  county,  and  both  as  black  as 

coal — 
They  very  much  resembled  the  pair  of  horses  I  stole. 

I  hitched  in  front  of  the  poor-house — I  opened  the 

poor-house  door; 
My   poor  old    mother  was  on   her  knees,  a-scrubbin' 

the  kitchen  floor ! 

I  coughed  a  little,  on  purpose — she  started,  in  surprise — 
Rose  up,  with  a  scared  expression,  an'   looked   me   in 

the  eyes. 

I  slowly  walked  up  to  her,  an'  all  her  troubles'  trace 
I  saw  in  the  lines  of  sorrow  that  marred  her  dear  old 

face : 
"Mother,  O  Mother!"  I   shouted;  "your  poor-house 

contract's  done  ; 
An'  you  henceforth  are  adopted,  by  your  resurrected 

son !" 

She  didn't  faint  nor  holloa — but  knelt  down  by  my  side, 
And  thanked  the  Lord  for  saving  her  me,  till  I  broke 
down  and  cried ; 


OVER  THE   HILL   FROM   THE  POOR-HOUSE  41 

But  maybe  our  ride  wasn't  merry !  and  maybe  we 
wasn't  gay ; 

And  maybe  I  didn't  wrap  her  up  that  blustering  win 
ter  day ! 

And  maybe,  when  we  had  got  home,  and  entered  the 

cottage  door, 
She  didn't  start  back  kind  of  sudden — as  if  she'd  seen 

it  before  ! 

And  maybe  it  wasn't  pleasant — our  cosey  evening  tea — 
With  her  quite  often  stoppin',  and  huggin',  and  kissin' 

me ! 

And  maybe  we  didn't  live  happy,  for  quite  a  number 

of  years ! 
And  I  gained  the  respect  of  my  neighbors  —  in  spite 

of  my  brothers'  sneers, 
And  spite  of  my  sisters'  caution ;  who  said,  as  I  have 

heard, 
That  they  never  could  own  a  brother  that  had  been 

a  prison  bird  ! 

But  I'll  bet,  when  the  great  bugle  rings  out  its  cheer 
ful  notes, 

And  the  good  Lord  Almighty  sorts  out  His  sheep 
and  goats, 

However  my  case  is  settled,  if  you  are  there  you'll 
see 

That  my  old  Christian  mother  will  stand  right  up 
for  me. 


UNCLE    SAMMY 

SOME  men  were  born  for  great  things, 

Some  were  born  for  small ; 
Some — it  is  not  on  record 

Why  they  were  born  at  all ; 

But  Uncle   Sammy  was  certain   he   had   a   legitimate 
call. 

Some  were  born  with  a  talent, 

Some  with  scrip  and  land ; 
Some  with  a  spoon  of  silver, 

And  some  with  a  different  brand ; 
But  Uncle  Sammy  came  holding  an  argument  in  each 
hand. 

Arguments  sprouted  within  him, 

And  twinkled  in  his  eye  ; 
He  seemed  to  be  merely  debating 

When  average  babies  cry : 

Discussing  the  question  whether  'twas  better  to  live 
or  die. 


UNCLE    SAMMY  43 

But  prejudiced  on  that  question 

He  grew  from  day  to  day, 
And  finally  he  concluded 

'Twas  better  for  him  to  stay; 

And   so   into   life's  discussion  he  argued   and   argued 
his  way. 

Through  childhood,  through  youth,  into  man 
hood 

Argued  and  argued  he ; 
And  married  a  simple  maiden, 

Though  scarcely  in  love  was  she; 
But    he    reasoned    the    matter   so    clearly   she    hardly 
could  help  but  agree. 

And  though  at  first  she  was  blooming, 

And  the  new  firm  started  strong, 
And  though  Uncle  Sammy  loved  her, 

And  tried  to  help  her  along, 

She  faded   away   in   silence,  and   'twas  evident  some 
thing  was  wrong. 

Now  Uncle  Sammy  was  faithful, 

And  various  remedies  tried ; 
He  gave  her  the  doctor's  prescriptions, 

And  plenty  of  logic  beside ; 

But  logic  and   medicine   failed  him,  and    so   one  day 
she  died. 

He  laid  her  away  in  the' church-yard, 
So  haggard  and  crushed  and  wan ; 


44 


FARM  BALLADS 


And  reared  her  a  costly  tombstone 

With  all  of  her  virtues  on ; 

And  ought   to   have  added,  "  A  victim   to  arguments 
pro  and  con." 

For  many  a  year  Uncle  Sammy 

Fired  away  at  his  logical  forte  : 
Discussion  was  his  occupation, 

And  altercation  his  sport ; 

He  argued  himself  out  of  churches,  he  argued  himself 
into  court. 

But  alas  for  his  peace  and  quiet, 

One  day,  when  he  went  it  blind, 
And  followed  his  singular  fancy, 
And  slighted  his  logical  mind, 

And  married  a  ponderous  lady  that  wasn't  of  the  ar 
guing  kind ! 

Her  sentiments  all  were  settled; 

Her  habits  were  planted  and  grown ; 
Her  heart  was  a  starved  little  creature 

That  followed  a  will  of  her  own ; 

And  she  raised  a  high   hand  with   Sammy,  and   pro 
ceeded  to  play  it  alone. 

Then  Sammy  he  charged  down  upon  her 

With  all  of  his  strength  and  his  wit, 
And  many  a  dext'rous  encounter, 
And  many  a  fair  shoulder-hit; 

But  vain  were  his  blows  and  his  blowing:   he   never 
could  faze  her  a  bit ! 


UNCLE    SAMMY  45 

He  laid  down  his  premises  round  her, 

He  hacked  at  her  with  his  saws ; 
He  rained  great  facts  upon  her, 

And  read  her  the  marriage  laws; 

But  the  harder  he  tried  to  convince   her,  the  harder 
and  harder  she  was. 

She  brought  home  all  her  relations, 

As  many  as  ever  she  could — 
With  sentiments  terribly  settled, 
And  appetites  horribly  good — 

Who  sat  with  him  long  at  his  table,  and  explained  to 
him  where  he  stood. 

And  Sammy  was  not  long  in  learning 

To  follow  the  swing  of  her  gown, 
And  came  to  be  wary  in  watching 

The  phase  of  her  smile  and  her  frown ; 
For  she,  with  the  heel  of  assertion,  soon  tramped  all 
his  arguments  down. 

And  so,  with  his  life-aspirations 

Thus  suddenly  brought  to  a  check — 
And  so,  with  the  foot  of  his  victor 

Unceasingly  pressing  his  neck — 

He  wrote  on  his  face,  "  I'm  a  victim,"  and   drifted  —  a 
logical  wreck. 

And  fellows  whom  he  had  argued 
To  corners  tight  and  fast. 


46  FARM    BALLADS 

Would  wink  at  each  other  and  chuckle, 

And  grin  at  him  as  he  passed, 

As  to  say,  "  My  ambitious  old  fellow,  your  whiffletree's 
straightened  at  last." 

Old  Uncle  Sammy  one  morning 

Lay  down  on  his  comfortless  bed, 
And  Death  and  he  had  a  discussion, 

And  Death  came  out  ahead ; 

And  the  fact  that  SHE  failed  to  start  him  was  only — 
the  man  was  dead. 

The  neighbors  laid  out  their  old  neighbor, 

With  homely  but  tenderest  art; 
And  some  of  the  oldest  ones  faltered, 

And  tearfully  stood  apart ; 

For  the  crusty  old  man  had  often  unguardedly  shown 
them  his  heart. 

But  on  his  face  an  expression 

Of  quizzical  study  lay, 
As  if  be  were  sounding  the  angel 

Who  travelled  with  him  that  day, 
And  laying  the  pipes  down  slyly  for  an  argument  on 
the  way. 

And  several  younger  parties 

Crept  round  him  with  quiet  feet, 

And  whispered,  "  P'rhaps  when  Uncle  Sammy 
Has  examined  the  golden  street, 

He'll  straightway  fly  to  headquarters, 
And  argue — concerning  his  seat." 


UNCLE   SAMMY  47 

But  God  is  a  God  of  goodness, 

With  love  for  us  all  possessed ; 
And  perhaps,  now,  he  took  Uncle  Sammy, 

And  gave  him  a  good  night's  rest, 
And  then  introduced  him  to  Solomon, 

And  said,  "  Sam,  do  your  best." 


TOM    WAS    COIN'     FOR     A     POET 
The  Farmer  Discourses  of  his  Son 

TOM  was  goin'  for  a  poet,  an'  said  he'd  a  poet  be ; 
One  of  these  long-haired  fellers  a  feller  hates  to  see ; 
One  of  these  chaps  forever  fixin'  things  cute  and  clever  ; 
Makin'  the  world  in  gen'ral  step  'long  to  tune  an*  time; 
Cuttin'   the   earth   into   slices   an'  saltin'  it  down  into 
rhyme. 

Poets  are  good   for  somethin',  so  long  as  they  stand 

at  the  head ; 
But  poetry's  worth  whatever  it   fetches  in  butter  an' 

bread. 

An'  many  a  time  I've  said  it :  it  don't  do  a  fellow  credit, 
To  starve  with  a  hole  in  his  elbow,  an'  be  considered 

a  fool, 
So  after  he's  dead  the  young  ones  '11  speak  his  pieces 

in  school. 

An'  Tom  he  had  an  opinion  that  Shakespeare  an'  all 

the  rest, 
With  all  their  winter  clothin',  couldn't  make  him  a 

decent  vest; 


TOM   WAS   COIN'    FOR   A   POET  49 

But  that  didn't  ease   my  labors,  or  help  him  among 

the  neighbors, 
Who  watched  him  from  a  distance,  an'  held  his  mind 

in  doubt, 
An*  wondered  if  Tom  wasn't  shaky,  or  knew  what  he 

was  about; 

Tom  he  went  a-sowin',  to  sow  a  field  of  grain ; 
But  half  of  that  'ere  sowin'  was  altogether  in  vain. 
For    he   was   al'ays   a-stoppin'»   and   gems   of   poetry 

droppin' ; 
And   metaphors,  they  be  pleasant,  but  much  too  thin 

to  eat; 
And  germs  of  thought  be  handy,  but  never  grow  up 

to  wheat. 

Tom  he  went  a-mowin',  one  broilin'  summer's  day, 

An'  spoke  quite  sweet  concernin*  the  smell  of  the  new- 
mowed  hay. 

But  all  o'  his  useless  chatter  didn't  go  to  help  the 
matter, 

Or  make  the  grief  less  searchin'  or  the  pain  less  hard 
to  feel, 

When  he  made  a  clip  too  suddent,  an'  sliced  his 
brother's  heeK 

Tom  he  went  a-drivin'  the  hills  an'  dales  across; 

But,  scannin'  the  lines  of  his  poetry,  he  dropped  the 
lines  of  his  hoss. 

The  nag  ran  fleet  and  fleeter,  in  quite  irregular  me 
tre; 


50  FARM    BALLADS 

An'  when  we  got  Tom's  legs  set,  an'  fixed  him  so's  to 

speak, 
He    muttered    that    that   adventur'   would    keep    him 

a-writin'  a  week. 

Tom   he  went  a-ploughin',  and  couldn't   have  done  it 

worse ;    , 

He  sat  down  on  the  handles,  an'  went  to  spinnin'  verse. 
He  wrote  it  nice  and  pretty — an  agricultural  ditty; 
But  all  o'  his  pesky  measures   didn't  measure  an  acre 

more, 
Nor  his  p'ints  didn't  turn  a  furrow  that  wasn't  turned 

before. 

Tom  he  went  a-courtin' ; — she  liked  him,  I  suppose; 
But  certain  parts  of  courtin'  a  feller  must  do  in  prose. 
He  rhymed  her  each  day  a  letter,  but  that  didn't  serve 

to  get  her : 
He   waited  so    long,  she    married   another   man    from 

spite, 
An'  sent  him  word  she'd  done  it,  an'  not  to  forget  to 

write. 

Tom  at  last  got  married;  his  wife  was  smart  and  stout, 

An'  she  shoved  up  the  window  and  slung  his  poetry 
out. 

An'  at  each  new  poem's  creation  she  gave  it  circula 
tion  ; 

An'  fast  as  he  would  write  'em  she  seen  to  their  put- 
tin'  forth ; 

An'  sent  'em  east  an'  westward,  an'  also  south  an'  north. 


TOM   WAS    COIN'    FOR  A   POET  51 

Till  Tom  he  struck  the  opinion  that  poetry  didn't  pay, 

An'  turned  the  guns  of  his  genius,  an'  fired  'em  an 
other  way. 

He  settled  himself  down  steady,  an1  is  quite  well  off 
already; 

An'  all  of  his  life  is  verses,  with  his  wife  the  first  an* 
best, 

An'  ten  or  a  dozen  child'rn  to  constitute  the  rest. 


COIN'   HOME   TO-DAY 

MY   business  on   the  jury's  done  —  the  quibblin'  all  is 

through — 
I've  watched  the  lawyers  right  and  left,  and  give  my 

verdict  true ; 
I    stuck   so  long  unto    my  chair,  I    thought   I   would 

grow  in  ; 

And  if  I  do  not  know  myself,  they'll  get  me  there  ag'in. 
But  now  the  court's  adjourned  for  good,  and  I  have 

got  my  pay, 
I'm  loose  at  last,  and  thank  the  Lord,  I'm  going  home 

to-day. 

I've  somehow  felt  uneasy  like,  since  first  day  I  come 

down ; 

It  is  an  awkward  game  to  play  the  gentleman  in  town ; 
And  this  'ere  Sunday  suit  of   mine  on  Sunday  rightly 

sets; 
But  when   I  wear  the   stuff  a  week,  it  somehow  galls 

and  frets. 
I'd  rather  wear  my  homespun   rig  of  pepper -salt  and 

gray— 
I'll  have  it  on  in  half  a  jiff,  when  I  get  home  to-day. 


COIN'   HOME   TO-DAY  53 

I   have  no  doubt  my  wife  looked  out,  as  well  as  any 

one — 
As  well  as  any  woman  could  —  to  see  that  things  was 

done: 
For  though   Melinda,  when    I'm   there,  won't   set  her 

foot  out- doors, 
She's  very  careful,  when  I'm  gone,  to  tend  to  all  the 

chores. 
But   nothing  prospers   half  so  well  when    I  go  off  to 

stay, 
And  I  will  put  things  into   shape,  when    I   get   home 

to-day  ! 

The  morn  in'  that  I  come  away,  we  had  a  little  bout; 

I  coolly  took  my  hat  and  left,  before  the  show  was  out. 

For  what  I  said  was  naught  whereat  she  ought  to 
take  offence ; 

And  she  was  always  quick  at  words  and  ready  to  com 
mence. 

But  then  she's  first  one  to  give  up  when  she  has  had 
her  say ; 

And  she  will  meet  me  with  a  kiss,  when  I  go  home 
to-day. 

My  little  boy — -I'll  give  'em  leave  to  match  him,  if 
they  can ; 

It's  fun  to  see  him  strut  about,  and  try  to  be  a  man  ! 

The  gamest,  cheeriest  little  chap,  you'd  ever  want  to 
see  ! 

And  then  they  laugh,  because  I  think  the  child  re 
sembles  me. 


54  FARM    BALLADS 

The   little   rogue  !    he  goes   for   me,  like   robbers   for 

their  prey  ; 
He'll   turn   my  pockets   inside  out,  when    I  get  home 

to-day  ! 

My  little  girl  —  I  can't  contrive  how  it  should  happen 
thus— 

That  God  could  pick  that  sweet  bouquet,  and  fling  it 
down  to  us ! 

My  wife,  she  says  that  han'some  face  will  some  day 
make  a  stir ; 

And  then  I  laugh,  because  she  thinks  the  child  re 
sembles  her. 

She'll  meet  me  half-way  down  the  hill,  and  kiss  me, 
anyway  ; 

And  light  my  heart  up  with  her  smiles,  when  I  go 
home  to-day  ! 

If  there's  a  heaven  upon  the  earth,  a  fellow  knows  it 
when 

He's  been  away  from  home  a  week,  and  then  gets 
back  again. 

If  there's  a  heaven  above  the  earth,  there  often,  I'll  be 
bound, 

Some  homesick  fellow  meets  his  folks,  and  hugs  'em 
all  around. 

But  let  my  creed  be  right  or  wrong,  or  be  it  as  it 
may, 

My  heaven  is  just  ahead  of  me  —  I'm  going  home  to 
day! 


lAs  Told  in  1880] 
OUT    O'   THE    FIRE 

YEAR  of  '71,  children,  middle  of  the  fall, 

On  one   fearful   night,  children,  we  wellnigh   lost  our 

all. 

True,  it  wa'n't  no  great  sum  we  had  to  lose  that  night, 
But  when  a  little's  all  you've  got,  it  comes  to  a  blessed 

sight. 

I  was  a  mighty  worker,  in  them  'ere  difficult  days, 
For  work   is  a  good   investment,  and    almost  always 

pays ; 
But  when  ten  years'  hard  labor  went  smokin'  into  the 

air, 
I  doubted  all  o'  the  maxims,  an'  felt  that  it  wasn't  fair. 

Up  from  the  East  we  had  travelled,  with  all  of  our 
household  wares, 

Where  we  had  long  been  workin'  a  piece  of  land  on 
shares ; 

But  how  a  fellow's  to  prosper  without  the  rise  of  the 
land, 

For  just  two -thirds  of  nothin',  I  never  could  under 
stand. 


56  FARM    BALLADS 

Up  from  the  East  we  had  travelled,  me  and  my  folks 

alone, 
And  quick  we  went  to  workin'  a  piece  of  land  of  our 

own ; 
Small  was  our  backwoods  quarters,  and  things  looked 

mighty  cheap; 
But  everything  we  put   in  there,  we  put   in  there  to 

keep. 

So,  with  workin'  and  savin',  we  managed  to  get  along; 
Managed  to  make  a  livin',  and  feel  consid'able  strong; 
And  things  went  smooth  and  happy,  an'  fair  as  the 

average  run, 
Till  Fate  went  back  upon  me  square,  in  the  fall  of  '71. 

First  thing  bothered  and  worried  me,  was  'long  o'  my 

daughter  Kate : 
Rather  a  han'some   cre'tur',  and   folks   all    liked    her 

gait. 
Not   so   nice  as   them   sham   ones   in   yeller- covered 

books ; 
But   still   there  wa'n't  much  discount  on  Katherine's 

ways  an'  looks. 

And  Katherine's  smile  was  pleasant,  and  Katherine's 
temper  was  good, 

And  how  she  came  to  like  Tom  Smith,  I  never  un 
derstood  ; 

For  she  was  a  morn  in '-glory,  as  fair  as  you  ever  see, 

And  Tom  was  a  shag-bark  hickory,  as  green  as  green 
could  be. 


OUT  O'   THE    FIRE  57 

"  Like  takes  to  like,"  is  a  proverb  that's  nothin'  more 

than  trash ; 

And  many  a  time  I've  seen  it  all  pulverized  to  smash. 
For  folks  in  no  way  sim'lar,  I've  noticed  ag'in  and  ag'in, 
Will  often  take  to  each  other,  and  stick  together  like 

sin. 

Next  thing  bothered  and  worried  me,  was  'long  of  a 

terrible  drouth ; 
And  me  an'  all  o'  my  neighbors  was  some'at  down  in 

the  mouth. 
And  week  after  week  the  rain  held  off,  and  things  all 

pined  an'  dried, 
And  we  drove  the  cattle  miles  to  drink,  and  many  of 

'em  died. 

And  day  after  day  went  by  us,  so  han'some  and  so 

bright, 

And  never  a  drop  of  water  came  near  us,  day  or  night ; 
And  what  with  the  neighbors'  grumblin',  and  what 

with  my  daily  loss, 
I    must   own   that   somehow  or  other   I   was  gettin' 

mighty  cross. 

And  on  one  Sunday  evenin'  I  was  comin'  down  the  lane 
From  meetin',  where  our  preacher  had  stuck  and  hung 

for  rain, 
And  various  slants  on  things  above  kept  workin'  in 

my  mind, 
And  the  smoke  from  Sanders's  fallow  was  makin'  me 

almost  blind  ; 


58  FARM    BALLADS 

I  opened  the  door  kind  o'  sudden,  an'  there  my  Kath- 

erine  sat, 

As  cosey  as  any  kitten  along  with  a  friendly  cat ; 
An'  Tom  was  dreadful  near  her — his  arm  on  the  back 

of  her  chair — 
And  lookin'  as  happy  and  cheerful  as  if  there  was  rain 

to  spare. 

"Get  out  of  this  house  in  a  minute!"  I  cried,  with  all 

my  might: 
"  Get  out,  while  I'm  a'talkih' !" — Tom's  eyes  showed  a 

bit  of  fight; 
But  he  rose  up,  stiff  and  surly,  and  made  me  a  civil 

bow, 
And  walked  along  to  the  doorway,  with  never  a  word 

of  row. 

And  I  snapped  up  my  wife  quite  surly  when  she  asked 

me  what  I'd  said, 
And  scolded  Kate  for  cryin',  and  sent  her  up-stairs  to 

bed; 
And  then   I   laid    down,  for  the   purpose  of  gettin'  a 

little  sleep, 
An'  the  wind  outside  was  a-howlin',  and  puttin'  it  in 

to  keep, 

'Twas  half -past  three   next    mornin',  or    maybe   'twas 

nearer  four — 
The  neighbors  they  came  a-yellin'  and  poundin'  at  my 

door; 


OUT  O'   THE    FIRE  59 

"Get  up!  get  up!"  they  shouted:  "get  up!  there's  dan 
ger  near  ! 

The  woods  are  all  a-burnin' !  the  wind  is  blowin'  it 
here  !" 

If   ever   it    happens,   children,   that   you   get   catched, 

some  time, 
With    fire    a-comin'   towards   you,  as  fast   as  fire    can 

climb, 
You'll  get  up  and  get  in  a  hurry,  as  quick  as  you  can 

budge ; 
It's   a   lively  season    of   the  year,   or   else    I    ain't   no 

judge 

Out   o'   the   dear   old   cabin   we   tumbled    fast   as   we 

could — 
Smashed   two -thirds   of  our   dishes,  and  saved   some 

four- foot  wood  ; 
With  smoke  a-settlin"  round  us  and   gettin'   into   our 

eyes, 
And  fire  a-roarin'  an'  cracklin'  an'  drowndin'   all  our 

cries. 

And  just  as  the  roof  was  smokin',  and  we  hadn't  long 

to  wait, 
I  says  to  my  wife,  "  Now  get  out,  and  hustle,  you  and 

Kate  !" 
And  just  as  the  roof  was  fallin',  my  wife  she  come  to 

me, 
With  a  face  as  white  as  a  corpse's  face,  and  "  Where 

is  Kate  ?"  says  she. 


60  FARM    BALLADS 

And  the  neighbors   came  a-runnin'  to  me,  with  faces 

black  as  the  ground, 
And  shouted,  "  Where  is  Katherine  ?      She's  nowhere 

to  be  found  !" 
An'  this   is  all  I  remember,  till  I  found   myself  next 

day, 
A-lyin'  in  Sanders's  cabin,  a  mile  an'  a  half  away. 

If  ever  you   wake   up,  children,  with   somethin'   into 

your  head, 
Concernin'  a  han'some  daughter,  that's  lyin'  still  an' 

dead, 
All  scorched  into  coal-black  cinders— perhaps  you  may 

not  weep, 
But  I  rather  think  it'll  happen  you'll  wish  you'd  kept 

asleep. 

And   all   I   could   say,  was    "  Kath'rine,  oh    Kath'rine, 

come  to  me !" 
And  all  I  could  think,  was  "  Kath'rine !"  and  all  that 

I  could  see, 
Was  Sanders  a-standin'  near  to  me,  with   pity  in  his 

eye, 
And  my  wife  a-bendin'  over  me,  and  tellin'  me  not  to 

cry; 

When  lo !    Tom   Smith   he  entered  —  his   face   lit  up 

with  grins — 
And  KATE  a-hangin'  on  his  arm,  as  neat  as  a  row  of 

pins! 


OUT   O'   THE    FIRE  6l 

And  Tom  looked  glad,  but  sheepish ;  and  said,  "  Ex 
cuse  me,  Squire, 

But  I  'loped  with  Kate,  and  married  her  an  hour  be 
fore  the  fire." 

Well,  children,   I   was   shattered ;    'twas    more   than    I 

could  bear — 
And  I  up  and   went   for  Kate   an'  Tom,  and   hugged 

'em  then  and  there ! 
And  since  that  time,  the  times  have  changed,  an'  life 

isn't  so  much  bother ; 
And — Katherine,  she's  your  mother  now,  and — Thomas 

Smith's  your  father! 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN 

THEY'VE  got  a  brand-new  organ,  Sue, 

For  all  their  fuss  and  search ; 
They've  done  just  as  they  said  they'd  do, 

And  fetched  it  into  church. 
They're  bound  the  critter  shall  be  seen, 

And  on  the  preacher's  right 
They've  hoisted  up  their  new  machine, 

In  everybody's  sight. 
They've  got  a  chorister  and  choir, 

Ag'in'  my  voice  and  vote  i 
For  it  was  never  my  desire 

To  praise  the  Lord  by  note ! 

I've  been  a  sister  good  an'  true 

For  five-an'-thirty  year; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear ; 
I've  sung  the  hymns  both  slow  and  quick, 

Just  as  the  preacher  read, 
And  twice,  when  Deacon  Tubbs  was  sick, 

I  took  the  fork  an'  led ! 


AG  IN     MY   VOICE    AND    VOTE 


THE  NEW  CHURCH  ORGAN  63 

And  now,  their  bold,  new-fangled  ways 

Is  comin'  all  about ; 
And  I,  right  in  my  latter  days, 

Am  fairly  crowded  out  I 

To-day  the  preacher,  good  old  dear, 

With  tears  all  in  his  eyes, 
Read,  "  I  can  read  my  title  clear 

To  mansions  in  the  skies." 
I  al'ays  liked  that  blessed  hymn — 

I  s'pose  I  al'ays  will  ; 
It  somehow  gratifies  my  whim, 

In  good  old  Ortonville ; 
But  when  that  choir  got  up  to  sing, 

I  couldn't  catch  a  word  ; 
They  sung  the  most  outlandish  thing 

A  body  ever  heard  ! 

Some  worldly  chaps  was  standin'  near; 

An'  when  I  see  them  grin, 
I  bid  farewell  to  every  fear, 

And  boldly  waded  in. 
I  thought  I'd  chase  their  tune  along, 

An'  tried  with  all  my  might ; 
But  though  my  voice  is  good  an'  strong, 

I  couldn't  steer  it  right; 
When  they  was  high,  then  I  was  low, 

An'  also  contrawise ; 
An'  I  too  fast,  or  they  too  slow, 

To  "mansions  in  the  skies." 


64  FARM    BALLADS 

An'  after  every  verse,  you  know, 

They  play  a  little  tune ; 
I  didn't  understand,  an'  so 

I  started  in  too  soon, 
I  pitched  it  pretty  middlin'  high, 

I  fetched  a  lusty  tone, 
But  oh,  alas!  I  found  that  I 

Was  singin'  there  alone ! 
They  laughed  a  little,  I  am  told ; 

But  I  had  done  my  best; 
And  not  a  wave  of  trouble  rolled 

Across  my  peaceful  breast. 

And  Sister  Brown — I  could  but  look — 

She  sits  right  front  of  me  ; 
She  never  was  no  singin'-book, 

An'  never  went  to  be ; 
But  then  she  al'ays  tried  to  do 

The  best  she  could,  she  said ; 
She  understood  the  time  right  through, 

An'  kep'  it  with  her  head ; 
But  when  she  tried  this  mornin',  oh, 

I  had  to  laugh,  or  cough ! 
It  kep'  her  head  a-bobbin'  so, 

It  e'en  a'most  came  off! 

An'  Deacon  Tubbs — he  all  broke  down, 
As  one  might  well  suppose  ; 

He  took  one  look  at  Sister  Brown, 
And  meekly  scratched  his  nose, 


THE  NEW  CHURCH   ORGAN  65 

An'  looked  his  hymn-book  through  and  through, 

And  laid  it  on  the  seat, 
And  then  a  pensive  sigh  he  drew, 

And  looked  completely  beat. 
An'  when  they  took  another  bout, 

He  didn't  even  rise ; 
But  drawed  his  red  bandanner  out, 

An'  wiped  his  weepin'  eyes. 

I've  been  a  sister,  good  an'  true, 

For  five-an '-thirty  year  ; 
I've  done  what  seemed  my  part  to  do, 

An'  prayed  my  duty  clear; 
But  Death  will  stop  my  voice,  I  know, 

For  he  is  on  my  track ; 
And  some  day  I  to  church  will  go, 

And  never  more  come  back; 
And  when  the  folks  gets  up  to  sing — 

Whene'er  that  time  shall  be — 
I  do  not  want  no  patent  thing 
A-squealin'  over  me ! 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS 

THE  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  his  countenance  fur 
rowed  with  care, 

His  mind  at  the  bottom  of  business,  his  feet  at  the 
top  of  a  chair, 

His  chair-arm  an  elbow  supporting,  his  right  nand  up 
holding  his  head, 

His  eyes  on  his  dusty  old  table,  with  different  docu 
ments  spread : 

There  were  thirty  long  pages  from  Howler,  with  un 
derlined  capitals  topped, 

And  a  short  disquisition  from  Growler,  requesting  his 
newspaper  stopped ; 

There  were  lyrics  from  Gusher,  the  poet,  concerning 
sweet  flow'rets  and  zephyrs, 

And  a  stray  gem  from  some  good  old  farmer,  describ 
ing  a  couple  of  heifers  ; 

There  were  billets  from  beautiful  maidens,  and  bills 
from  a  grocer  or  two, 

And  his  last  leader  hitched  to  a  letter,  which  inquired 
if  he  wrote  it,  or  who  ? 

There  were  raptures  of  praises  from  writers  of  the 
weakly  mellifluous  school, 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  67 

And  one  of  his  rival's  last  papers,  informing  him  he 
was  a  fool  ; 

There  were  several  long  resolutions,  with  names  tell 
ing  whom  they  were  by, 

Canonizing  some  harmless  old  brother,  when  all  he 
had  done  was  to  die ; 

There  were  traps  on  that  table  to  catch  him,  and  ser 
pents  to  sting  and  to  smite  him  ; 

There  were  gift  enterprises  to  sell  him,  and  bitters  at 
tempting  to  bite  him  ; 

There  were  long  staring  "  ads "  from  the  city,  and 
money  with  never  a  one, 

Which  added,  "  Please  give  this  insertion,  and  send  in 
your  bill  when  you're  done  "  ; 

There  were  letters  from  organizations — their  meetings, 
their  wants,  and  their  laws — 

Which  said,  "  Can  you  print  this  announcement  for — 
the  good  of  our  glorious  cause  ?" 

There  were  tickets  inviting  his  presence  to  festivals, 
parties,  and  shows, 

Wrapped  in  notes  with  "  Please  give  us  a  notice  "  de 
murely  slipped  in  at  the  close ; 

In  short,  as  his  eye  took  the  table,  and  ran  o'er  its 
ink-spattered  trash, 

There  was  nothing  it  did  not  encounter,  excepting  per 
haps  it  was  cash. 

The  Editor  dreamily  pondered  on  several  ponderous 
things : 

On  different  lines  of  action,  and  the  pulling  of  differ 
ent  strings ; 


68  FARM    BALLADS 

Upon  some  equivocal   doings,  and    some   unequivocal 

duns; 
On   how  few  of    his    numerous   patrons  were  quietly 

prompt-paying  ones. 
On   friends  who   subscribed  "just   to   help  him,"  and 

wordy  encouragement  lent, 
And  had  given  him  plenty  of  counsel,  but  never  had 

paid  him  a  cent ; 
On  vinegar    kind  -  hearted    people  were    feeding    him 

every  hour, 
Who  saw  not  the  work  they  were  doing,  but  wondered 

that  "  printers  are  sour  "  ; 
On  various  other  small   matters,  sufficient  his  temper 

to  roil, 
And  finely  contrived   to  be   making  the  blood  of  an 

editor  boil ; 

And  so  one  may  see  that  his  feelings  could  hardly  be 
said  to  be  smooth, 

And  he  needed  some  pleasant  occurrence  his  ruffled 
emotions  to  soothe : 

He  had  it ;  for  lo !  on  the  threshold,  a  slow  and  re 
liable  tread, 

And  a  farmer  invaded  the  sanctum,  and  these  are  the 
words  that  he  said  : 

"Good-mornin",  sir,  Mr.  Printer;  how  is  your  body  to 
day? 

I'm  glad  you're  to  home ;  for  you  fellers  is  al'ays  a- 
runnin'  away. 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  69 

Your  paper  last  week  wa'n't  so  spicy  nor  sharp  as  the 

one  week  before, 
But  I  s'pose  when  the  campaign  is  opened,  you'll  be 

whoopin'  it  up  to  'em  more. 
That  feller  that's  printin'  The  Smasher  is  goin'  for  you 

perty  smart ; 
And  our   folks   said    this    mornin'   at   breakfast,   they 

thought  he  was  gettin'  the  start. 
But   I   hushed   'em  right  up  in  a  minute,  and  said    a 

good  word  for  you  ; 
I  told  'em  I  b'lieved  you  was  tryin'  to  do  just  as  well 

as  you  knew ; 

And    I   told  'em   that  some  one  was  sayin',  and  who 
ever  'twas  it  is  so, 
That  you  can't  expect  much  of  no  one  man,  nor  blame 

him  for  what  he  don't  know. 
But,  layin'   aside  pleasure  for   business :   I've   brought 

you  my  little  boy  Jim  ; 
And  I  thought  we  perhaps  could  be  makin'  an  editor 

outen  o'  him. 

"  My  family  stock  is  increasin',  while  other  folks'  seems 
to  run  short. 

I've  got  a  right  smart  of  a  family — it's  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned  sort. 

There's  Ichabod,  Isaac,  and  Israel,  a-workin'  away  on 
the  farm — 

They  do  'bout  as  much  as  one  good  boy,  and  make 
things  go  off  like  a  charm. 

There's  Moses  and  Aaron  are  sly  ones,  and  slip  like  a 
couple  of  eels ; 


yo  FARM    BALLADS 

But  they're  tol'able  steady  in  one  thing  —  they  al'ays 

git  round  to  their  meals. 

There's   Peter   is  busy  inventin'  (though  what  he   in 
vents  I  can't  see), 
And  Joseph   is   studyin'   medicine  —  and  both  of  'em 

boardin'  with  me. 
There's   Sam  smashed   his  nose  at  a  shootin',  and  so 

he  is  laid  on  the  shelf, 
And  Abram   and  Albert  is   married,  each  workin'  my 

farm  for  himself. 
The  rest   of  the  boys  are  all  growin',  'cept  this  little 

runt,  which  is  Jim ; 
And  I  thought  that  perhaps  I'd  be   makin'  an  editor 

outen  o'  him. 

"  He  ain't  no  great  shakes  for  to  labor,  though  I've 
labored  with  him  a  good  deal, 

And  give  him  some  strappin'  good  arguments  I  know 
he  couldn't  help  but  to  feel ; 

But  he's  built  out  of  second-growth  timber,  and  noth- 
in'  about  him  is  big 

Exceptin'  his  appetite  only,  and  there  he's  as  good  as 
a  pig. 

I  keep  him  a-carryin'  luncheons,  and  fillin'  and  bring- 
in'  the  jugs, 

And  take  him  among  the  pertatoes,  and  set  him  to 
pickin'  the  bugs; 

And  then  there  is  things  to  be  doin'  a-helpin'  the 
women  in-doors ; 

There's  churnin'  and  washin'  of  dishes,  and  other  de 
scriptions  of  chores; 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  71 

But   he   don't  take  to  nothin'  but  victuals,  and   he'll 

never  be  much,  I'm  afraid, 
So  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good   notion  to  larn   him 

the  editor's  trade. 
His   body's  too  small   for  a  farmer,  his  judgment  is 

rather  too  slim, 
But  I  thought  we  perhaps  could  be  makin'  an  editor 

outen  o"  him ! 

"It  ain't   much  to  get  up  a  paper — it  wouldn't  take 

him  long  for  to  learn ; 
He  could  feed  the  machine,  I'm  thinkin',  with  a  good 

strappin'  fellow  to  turn. 
And  things  that  was  once  hard  in  doin'  is  easy  enough 

now  to  do ; 
Just  keep  your  eye  on  your  machinery,  and  crack  your 

arrangements  right  through. 
I  used  for  to  wonder  at  readin',  and  where  it  was  got 

up,  and  how; 
But  'tis  most  of  it  made  by  machinery  —  I  can  see  it 

all  plain  enough  now. 

And  poetry,  too,  is  constructed  by  machines  of  differ 
ent  designs, 
Each  one  with  a  gauge  and  a  chopper  to  see  to  the 

length  of  the  lines ; 
An'  since  the  whole  trade  has  grow'd  easy,  'twould  be 

easy  enough,  I've  a  whim, 
If  you  was  agreed,  to  be  makin'  an  editor  outen  of  Jim  !" 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum  and  looked  the  old  man 
in  the  eye, 


72  FARM    BALLADS 

Then   glanced    at   the    grinning    young    hopeful,   and 

mournfully  made  his  reply: 
"  Is  your  son  a  small  unbound  edition  of  Moses  and 

Solomon  both  ? 
Can  he  compass  his  spirit  with  meekness,  and  strangle 

a  natural  oath  ? 
Can  he  leave  all  his  wrongs  to  the  future,  and  carry 

his  heart  in  his  cheek  ? 
Can  he  do  an  hour's  work  in  a  minute,  and  live  on  a 

sixpence  a  week? 
Can  he  courteously  talk  to  an  equal,  and  browbeat  an 

impudent  dunce? 
Can  he  keep  things  in  apple  -  pie  order,  and  do  half  a 

dozen  at  once  ? 
Can  he  press  all  the  springs  of  knowledge,  with  quick 

and  reliable  touch, 
And  be  sure  that  he  knows  how  much  to  know,  and 

knows  how  to  not  know  too  much  ? 
Does  he  know  how  to  spur  up  his  virtue,  and  put  a 

check-rein  on  his  pride  ? 

Can  he  carry  a  gentleman's  manners  within  a  rhinoc 
eros'  hide  ? 

Can  he  know  all,  and  do  all,  and  be  all,  with  cheer 
fulness,  courage,  and  vim  ? 
If  so,  we   perhaps   can   be   making   an   editor   '  outen 

of  him.' " 

The  farmer  stood  curiously  listening,  while  wonder  his 
visage  o'erspread ; 

And  he  said,  "Jim,  I  guess  we'll  be  goin';  he's  proba 
bly  out  of  his  head." 


THE  EDITOR'S  GUESTS  73 

But  lo !  on  the  rickety  staircase,  another  reliable  tread, 
And  entered  another  old   farmer,  and   these   are   the 
words  that  he  said  : 

"Good -morn ing,  sir,  Mr.  Editor,  how  is  the  folks  to 
day? 

I  owe  you  for  next  year's  paper;  I  thought  I'd  come 
in  and  pay. 

And  Jones  is  a-goin'  to  take  it,  and  this  is  his  money 
here ; 

I  shut  down  on  lendin*  it  to  him,  and  coaxed  him  to 
try  it  a  year. 

And  here  is  a  few  little  items  that  happened  last 
week  in  our  town : 

I  thought  they'd  look  good  for  the  paper,  and  so  I 
just  jotted  'em  down. 

And  here  is  a  basket  of  cherries  my  wife  picked  ex 
pressly  for  you  ; 

And  a  small  bunch  of  flowers  from  Jennie  —  she 
thought  she  must  send  somethin'  too. 

You're  doin'  the  politics  bully,  as  all  of  our  family 
agree ; 

Just  keep  your  old  goose-quill  a-floppin',  and  give  'em 
a  good  one  for  me ! 

And  now  you  are  chuck-full  of  business,  and  I  won't 
be  takin'  your  time ; 

I've  things  of  my  own  I  must  'tend  to — good-day,  sir, 
I  b'lieve  I  will  climb." 

The  Editor  sat  in  his  sanctum,  with  countenance  smil 
ing  and  bland  ; 


74  FARM    BALLADS 

"God  bless  that  old  farmer,"  he  muttered,  "and  long 
may  he  live  in  the  land !" 

And  'tis  thus  with  our  noble  profession,  and   thus  it 

will  ever  be,  still ; 
There  are  some  who  appreciate  its  labors,  and   some 

who  perhaps  never  will. 
But  in  the  great  time  that  is  coming,  when  loudly  the 

trumpet  shall  sound, 
And  they  who  have   labored  and  rested  come  out  of 

the  quivering  ground ; 
When  they  who  have  striven  and  suffered   to  teach 

and  ennoble  the  race, 
Shall  march  at  the  front  of  the  column,  each  one  in 

his  God-given  place, 
As   they  pass   through   the   gates   of   The   City   with 

proud  and  victorious  tread, 
The   editor,  printer,  and  "  devil,"  will    travel   not   far 

from  the  head. 


THE   HOUSE  WHERE   WE   WERE   WED 

I'VE  been  to  the  old  farm-house,  good-wife, 

Where  you  and  I  were  wed  ; 
Where  the  love  was  born  to  our  two  hearts 

That  now  lies  cold  and  dead. 
Where  a  long-kept  secret  to  you  I  told, 

In  the  yellow  beams  of  the  moon, 
And  we  forged  our  vows  out  of  love's  own  gold, 

To  be  broken  so  soon,  so  soon ! 

I  passed  through  all  the  old  rooms,  good-wife ; 

I  wandered  on  and  on  ; 
I  followed  the  steps  of  a  flitting  ghost, 

The  ghost  of  a  love  that  is  gone. 
And  he  led  me  out  to  the  arbor,  wife, 

Where  with  roses  I  twined  your  hair ; 
And  he  seated  me  down  on  the  old  stone  step, 

And  left  me  musing  there. 

The  sun  went  down  as  it  used  to  do, 

And  sank  in  the  sea  of  night ; 
The  two  bright  stars  that  we  called  ours 

Came  slowly  unto  my  sight ; 


76  FARM    BALLADS 

But  the  one  that  was  mine  went  under  a  cloud — 

Went  under  a  cloud  alone ; 
And  a  tear  that  I  wouldn't  have  shed  for  th'e  world, 

Fell  down  on  the  old  gray  stone. 

But  there  be  words  can  ne'er  be  unsaid, 

And  deeds  can  ne'er  be  undone, 
Except  perhaps  in  another  world, 

Where  life's  once  more  begun. 
And  maybe  some  time  in  the  time  to  come, 

When  a  few  more  years  are  sped, 
We'll  love  again  as  we  used  to  love, 

In  the  house  where  we  were  wed. 


REUNITED 

THE  white-winged  Winter  storm  swept  swiftly  past, 
Or  paused  to  hover  o'er  the  farm-house  old, 
And  shed  its  cold,  white  plumage  on  the  roof, 
Thatching  it  thicker  every  icy  hour. 
A  million  snow-flakes  struggled  with  the  wind, 
Careered,  and  dashed,  and  fell,  and  rose  again, 
As  striving,  each,  to  live  its  longest  time, 
Ere  vanishing  to  an  inglorious  whole — 
Lost — nevermore  a  snow-flake. 

Every  thing 

Wore,  on  that  day,  the  frost-fringed  badge  of  Death. 
The  clouds  were  palls,  and  every  drift  a  shroud  ; 
The  apple-trees  were  singing  funeral  hymns, 
The  leafless  maples  listening  to  the  dirge ; 
And  on  yon  hill  the  wind-stripped  forest-trees 
Arose  like  graves  of  skeletons  upright. 

But  not  content,  to-day,  with  out-door  rule, 
Death  through  the  cottage-door  had  made  his  way 
(And  who  so  laughs  to  scorn  the  bolts  and  walls  ?), 
Crouched  his  chill  form  before  the  kitchen  fire, 
And  smiled  to  see  his  glance  put  out  the  blaze. 


78  FARM    BALLADS 

She  lay — the  mother  of  a  helpless  flock — 
Unheeding  all  the  childish  tears  of  grief, 
That  else  had  wasted  not  a  single  note, 
Without  her  loving  and  consoling  kiss. 
The  children  bent  above  her  lifeless  form, 
Or  tiptoed  drearily  from  room  to  room, 
As  if  in  search  of  that  sweet  soul,  which  once 
Had  lighted  all  the  house  with  love  and  peace; 
Or  glanced,  with  eyes  half  curious  and  half  sad. 
At  the  pale  father,  who,  stunned,  bent,  and  crushed 
By  this  swift  blow,  was  rallying  now  his  strength 
To  bear  the  grief. 

Ah !  many  friends  we  love 
May  climb  the  gilded  mountains  of  the  clouds, 
And  find  the  regions  of  the  farther  sky, 
Ere  we  can  leave  this  land  of  fleshly  ghosts, 
And  join  the  kingdom  of  realities. 
The  earth  must  beat  on  many  a  coffin-lid 
Fit  time  to  strains  of  sorrow  in  our  hearts, 
For  those  above  whose  lifeless  breast  it  falls. 
Life's  turnpike  scowls  with  toll-gates  of  the  graves ! 
And  yet,  a  hundred  losses  come  and  go, 
Each  in  its  turn  may  bend  us  to  the  earth, 
And,  while  we  do  but  mourn  the  latest  ill, 
Some  crushing  sorrow  may  outweigh  them  all ! 

What  picture  can  be  drearier  to  the  heart 
Than  a  loved  sister,  lying  in  her  shroud  ? 
To  feel  no  more  the  clinging  confidence 
That  rested  on  you  from  her  clear,  pure  eyes ; 


REUNITED  79 

To  know  that  Death,  a  suitor  undesired, 

Has  proudly  drawn  that  lingering  hand  from  yours, 

And  led  her  silently  away  with  him, 

Into  the  shadows  of  his  own  dark  land ; 

To  feel  so  many  flowers  of  memory  nipped 

By  the  same  frost  that  rests  upon  her  brow ; 

To  think  of  all  the  past — the  darling  past — 

With  half-neglected  sweets,  forever  gone ; 

Ah,  yes  ! — a  sister's  loss  is  hard  to  bear ; 

But  there  are  other  griefs. 

A  brother's  grave 

Rests  ever  'neath  the  head-stone  of  despair. 
There  is  no  sound  so  mournful  as  the  hush 
That  lingers  o'er  a  sturdy  death-stilled  heart; 
No  power  that  so  the  tender  soul  can  move 
As  the  inaction  of  a  brawny  arm. 
For  Memory  lingers  with  us  round  that  grave, 
Awarding  and  avenging  all  the  past: 
Pouring  a  balm  for  each  good  act  and  word, 
And  dealing  thrusts  for  all  that  was  unkind ; 
While  Pity  hovers  all  about  the  scene, 
And  weeps  that  one  so  strong  should  helpless  lie. 
Ah,  yes !  a  brother's  loss  is  hard  to  bear ! 
And  yet,  there  are  more  griefs. 

A  father's  voice 

May  hush  its  words  of  counsel  and  reproof, 
Its  blessings,  and  its  hopeful  words  of  cheer, 
And  sink  in  Silence's  unfathomed  sea. 
A  father's  coffin  holds  a  treasure  lost; 


80  FARM    BALLADS 

A  father's  love  is  wondrous  strong  and  true, 
Even  though  not  unmixed  with  selfish  pride ; 
A  father's  loss  is  heavy  to  be  borne ; 
But  there  are  drearier,  heavier  griefs. 

The  pang — 

The  cruel  pang,  the  never-ceasing  pang — 
That  turns  the  sweets  of  life  to  bitterness, 
All  zephyrs  unto  tempests,  and  each  breeze 
To  organ  tones  of  woe ;  the  hopeless  pang 
That  pits  rebellious  life  against  itself, 
When  the  strong  cord,  the  golden,  love-charged  cord, 
That  holds  a  wife  and  mother  to  her  own, 
Severs,  and  falls  in  ruins  at  our  feet, 
And  mocks  us  with  its  brightness  'mid  the  dust! 
There  is  no  loss,  except  the  loss  of  heaven, 
Like  that  which  fills  a  wife  and  mother's  shroud  ; 
There  is  no  love,  except  the  love  of  God, 
Like  that  which  fills  a  wife  and  mother's  heart ! 

It  is  a  fire  that  never  can  be  quenched, 

Though  base  ingratitude  be  on  it  poured ; 

Though  wickedness  may  wrap  and  clasp  it  'round. 

E'en  he  who  flees  the  answer  to  its  prayers, 

Still  sees,  along  his  crooked,  thorny  path, 

The  sweet  refulgence  of  its  constant  light; 

And  though  he  creep  through-vilest  caves  of  sin, 

And  crouch,  perhaps,  with  bleared  and  bloodshot  eyes, 

Under  the  hangman's  rope — a  mother's  lips 

Will  kiss  him  in  his  last  bed  of  disgrace, 

And  love  him  e'en  for  what  she  hoped  of  him. 


REUNITED  8l 

While  yet  reposed  the  mother  of  that  flock, 
In  the  white  drapery  of  her  burial  robes, 
The  door  swung  swiftly  on  its  creaking  hinge, 
And,  heeding  not  the  startled,  wondering  look 
Of  the  sad  father,  as  he  raised  his  eyes, 
And  sighed  for  sorrow  of  the  hopeless  past, 
A  young  and  fragile  form  crept  softly  in, 
With  locks  dishevelled,  with  tear-fevered  eyes, 
And  face  as  white  as  she  had  been  the  dead. 
Upon  her  brow  were  drawn  long  lines  of  care, 
And  marks  that  told  of  waywardness  and  vice. 

Scarce  heeding  them  whose  wondering  eyes  arose, 
She  hastened  to  the  sleeper ;  and  with  tears 
Of  penitence,  that  well  might  pay  the  debt 
That  sin  and  disobedience  had  run  up — 
If  tears  could  pay  such  debts  —  she  clasped  the 

form 

Unto  her  breast,  and  kissed  the  unanswering  lips, 
And  thus  she  spoke : 

"  O  mother,  mother  lost ! 

Thou  'rt  here,  yet  gone  so  far !     I  still  can  see 
The  gentle  smile  that  lingers  on  thy  face, 
But  cannot  hear  thy  kind,  consoling  voice ! 
My  impure  lips  may  kiss  thy  sacred  cheek, 
Yet  feel  no  kindly  pressure  back  again  ! 
My  words  of  grief  and  penitence  may  fall, 
With  pardon  humbly  asked,  upon  thine  ear, 
And  yet  thou  canst  not  hear  them  ;  and  no  word 
Of  blest  forgiveness  canst  thou  answer  back ! 

6 


82  FARM    BALLADS 

"  O  mother,  wronged,  wronged,  foully,  bitterly  ! 
Crushed  by  ingratitude,  and  all  the  shame 
That  one  like  me  could  heap  upon  thy  pride  J 
Spurned,  when  thou  followedst  me,  e'en  in  my  guilt, 
Down  to  the  darkest  depths  of  wayward  sin, 
And  begged,  with  tears,  that  I  would  come  with  thee, 
And  tread  the  paths  of  virtue  once  again  ! 

"Give  to  me  but  one  word  ;  one  little  word 
Of  pardon,  for  the  dark  and  shameful  past ; 
One  short,  one  fleeting  word  ;  nay,  even  a  breath  ; 
Or  lend  to  me  a  sign ;  a  smile ;  a  glance ; 
That  I  may  feel  forgiveness  for  my  sin ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  laid  into  thy  grave, 
Without  one  word  of  pardon  and  of  love ! 
And  if,  O  God  !  thou  wilt  but  let  her  come, 
But  just  to  speak  one  single  word  to  me, 
I  vow  to  Thee  my  lips  shall  sing  Thy  praise, 
My  heart  shall  beat  accordance  with  Thy  word, 
And  truth  and  virtue  shall  adorn  my  life, 
Until  this  weary  heart  may  cease  to  beat." 

As  the  frail  plantlet,  bursting  from  its  seed, 
Casts  off  the  earth  that  rests  upon  its  head, 
And  springs  to  new-made  beauty — so  this  prayer, 
Cleaving  the  guilt  and  shame  that  o'er  it  hung, 
Bloomed  fair  and  pure  before  the  All-seeing  eye. 
And  it  was  answered.     From  her  deathly  trance 
The  mother  woke;  and,  lifting  up  her  head, 
Said,  "Where  am  I? — a  deep,  long  sleep  was  mine. 
I  dreamed  that  in  the  fields  of  Paradise, 


REUNITED  83 

A  shepherdess,  I  watched  and  fed  a  flock ; 

Till  the  Almighty  came  to  me,  and  said, 

'  Matron,  return  unto  thy  flock  below, 

For  they  are  chilled  by  the  cold,  wintry  storm. 

And  one,  which  long  time  went  from  thee  astray, 

Worn,  soiled,  but  penitent,  to-day  returns. 

She  shall  henceforth  be  led  by  Heaven's  pure  light, 

And  thou  shalt  take  her,  chastened,  to  thine  arms.'  " 


HOW  JAMIE  CAME  HOME 

COME,  Mother,  set  the  kettle  on, 

An'  put  the  ham  an'  eggs  to  fry ! 
Something  to  eat,  old-fashioned-neat — 

To  please  our  Jamie's  mouth  and  eye ! 
For  he's  our  only  son,  you  know ; 
The  rest  ha'  perished,  long  ago ! 
And  when  he  comes  to  us  to-night, 
His  glad,  blue  eyes  will  sparkle  bright, 
His  old,  sweet  smile  will  play  right  free, 
His  boyhood  home  once  more  to  see. 

I  say  for't !  'twas  a  lucky  thing 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  killed? 
So  many  years,  with  pain  an'  tears, 

With  long  an'  bloody  battles  filled ! 
And  many  a  night-time,  dark  an'  drear, 
We've  lain  within  our  cottage  here, 
And  while  the  cold  storm  came  an'  went 
We've  thought  of  Jamie,  in  his  tent ; 
And  offered  many  a  silent  prayer, 
That  God  would  keep  him  in  his  care. 


HOW  JAMIE  CAME  HOME  8$ 

I  say  for't !  'twas  a  lucky  thing 

That  Jamie  was  not  maimed  or  killed ! 
So  many  years,  with  hopes  an'  fears, 

With  dark,  death-laden  tidings  filled ! 
And  many  a  morning,  full  o'  fear, 
We've  knelt  around  our  fireside  here, 
And  while  we've  thought  of  bleeding  ones, 
Of  flashing  steel  and  blazing  guns, 
We've  prayed  for  him  we  sent  out  there, 
Addressed  in  God's  paternal  care. 


Nay,  Ada,  daughter,  come  away; 

Touch  not  a  thing  upon  that  shelf ! 
Mother,  she  knows  where  each  dish  goes : 

Mother  shall  lay  them  all  herself ! 
There's  nothing,  to  the  wanderer's  taste, 
Like  food  where  mother's  hand  is  traced ; 
There's  nothing,  to  the  wanderer's  look, 
Like  food  her  cunning  hand  can  cook. 
Though  good  the  sister's  heart  and  will, 
The  mother's  love  is  better  still. 


Hark!  there's  his  step! — he's  coming  now! 

I  thought — yes,  there's  the  sound  once  more  J 
Now  with  glad  feet  and  smiles,  we'll  greet 

The  truant,  at  our  open  door ! 
It  is  a  heavy  step  and  tone, 
And  more — the  lad  is  not  alone ! 
Perhaps  the  company  extends 
To  some  of  his  old  comrade-friends; 


86  FARM    BALLADS 

And  who  they  be,  or  whence  they  came, 
They  shall  be  greeted  all  the  same. 

What  bear  ye  on  your  shoulders,  men  ? 

Is  it  my  Jamie,  stark  and  dead  ? 
What  did  you  say?  .  .  .  Once  more,  I  pray, 

I  did  not  gather  what  you  said. 
What,  drunk  ? — tell  not  that  lie  to  me  ! 
What,  drunk?    O  God,  it  cannot  be! 
It  must  not  be  my  Jamie  dear, 
Lying  in  beast-like  slumber  here ! 
It  is — it  is — as  you  have  said. 
Men,  lay  him  on  yon  waiting  bed. 

'Tis  Jamie — yes — a  bearded  man, 

But  bearing  yet  some  boyhood's  trace ; 

Stained  with  the  ways  of  reckless  days — 
Flushed  with  night-revels — is  his  face; 

Red  with  the  fruits  of  reckless  years ; 

Robbed  of  each  look  that  e'er  endears ; 

Robbed  of  each  mark  that  e'er  might  make 

Us  cherish  him  for  his  own  sake, 

Except  the  heart-distressing  one, 

That  Jamie  is  our  only  son ! 

O  Mother,  take  the  kettle  off, 
And  put  our  humble  feast  away ! 

What  was  my  crime,  and  when  the  time, 
That  I  should  live  to  see  this  day? 

For  all  the  sighs  I  ever  drew, 

And  all  the  grief  I  ever  knew, 


"WHAT    WAS   MY   CRIME?" 


HOW  JAMIE   CAME  HOME  87 

And  all  the  bitter  tears  I  shed 
Above  our  children  that  are  dead, 
All  cares  that  ever  creased  my  brow, 
Are  naught  to  what  comes  o'er  me  now ! 

I  would  to  God  that  when  the  three 

We  lost  were  hidden  from  our  view, 
Jamie  had  died,  and  by  their  side 

Had  lain,  all  pure  and  stainless,  too ! 
I  would  the  sky  might  bend  above 
The  grave  of  him  we  joyed  to  love, 
Rather  than  that  he  living  came 
To  bring  this  home  disgrace  and  shame ! 
But,  Mother — Ada — come  this  way, 
And  let  us  humblv  kneel  and  pray. 


THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER 

THE  clang  of  the  Yankee  reaper, 

On  Salisbury  Plain ! 
A  music  grander — deeper — 

Than  many  a  nobler  strain. 

Across  that  British  prairie 
I  tramped,  one  summer  day : 

The  breeze  was  free  and  merrv — 
White  lamb-clouds  were  at  play; 

With  fleecy  wealth  was  teeming 
The  shepherd's  paddock  fold ; 

And  ripened  grain  stood  gleaming 
Like  lakes  of  melted  gold ; 

Far  off  were  grimly  looming 
Stonehenge's  mystery-piles ; 

Beneath  the  feet  were  blooming 
A  floweret's  modest  smiles; 

And  nature's  wondrous  being 
The  gladdened  eye  possessed; 


THE   CLANG   OF   THE    YANKEE   REAPER  " 


THE  CLANG  OF  THE  YANKEE  REAPER      89 

But  what  is  cheery  of  seeing, 
When  the  heart  is  ill  at  rest? 

For  deep  waves  of  emotion 

Had  all  that  day  prevailed, 
And  over  the  broad  blue  ocean 

My  sad  heart  swiftly  sailed. 

Across  the  cold  sea  sailing, 

My  dreary  memory  roved ; 
Sweet  old-time  scenes  unveiling, 

With  true  friends,  fondly  loved  ; 

And  brought  back  many  a  feeling 

That  long  had  dwelt  apart, 
Till  through  my  life  came  stealing 

The  pangs  of  a  homesick  heart. 

And  never  the  sea's  wide  reaches 

Seemed  half  the  fathoms  o'er, 
Or  the  West-land's  shining  beaches 

So  far  away  before. 

When  richer,  sweeter,  deeper 

Than  a  distant  music  strain, 
Came  the  clang  of  the  Yankee  reaper 

On  Salisbury  Plain ! 

As  when  the  heart  is  weeping 

'Neath  slowly  crushing  hours, 
The  fragrance  soft  comes  creeping 

Of  memory-hallowed  flowers ; 


FARM    BALLADS 

As  when,  with  sudden  gleaming, 
Above  some  foreign  dome, 

Against  the  sky  goes  streaming 
The  flag  of  our  nation-home ; 

So  from  my  heart  the  sadness 

In  silence  gently  stole, 
And  rich  new  strains  of  gladness 

Came  thrilling  through  my  soul. 


"WHY   SHOULD   THEY   KILL   MY   BABY?" 

[The  aged  mother  of  the  late  President  Garfield  is  reported  to  have  ex 
claimed  as  above,  upon  hearing  the  news  of  his  attempted  assassination.] 

WHY  should  they  kill  my  baby?  —  for  he  seems  the 

same  to  me 
As  when,  in  the  morning  twilight,  I  tossed  him  on  my 

knee, 
And  sowed  for  him  hopes  to  blossom  when  he  should 

be  a  man, 
And  dreamed  for  him  such  a  future  as  only  a  mother 

can. 

I  looked  ahead  to  the  noon-time  with  proud  but  trem 
bling  joy ; 

I  had  a  vision  of  splendor  for  my  sweet,  bright-eyed  boy ; 

But  little  enough  I  fancied  that,  when  he  had  gained 
renown, 

Base  Envy's  poisoned  bullet  would  suddenly  strike 
him  down ! 

Why  should  they  want  to  kill  him  ?     Because  he  had 

cut  his  way 
Through    Poverty's    gloomy   woodland    out    into    the 

open  day, 


92  FARM    BALLADS 

And  sent  a  shout  of  good  cheer  to  those  who  were 

yet  within, 
That  honor  is  born  of  striving,  and  honesty  yet  can 

win  ? 

Or  was  it  because  from  boyhood  he  manfully  bared 
his  breast 

To  fight  for  the  poor  and  lowly,  and  aid  the  sore  op 
pressed  ? 

Ah  me !  the  world  is  working  upon  a  treacherous 
plan, 

When  he  who  has  struck  for  mankind  is  stricken 
down  by  man ! 

Or  did  they  begrudge  his  mother  the  hand  he  reached 
her  still, 

No  odds  how  high  he  clambered  up  Fortune's  glitter 
ing  hill? 

For  in  his  proudest  life -day  he  turned  from  the 
honors  of  earth, 

And  came  and  tenderly  kissed  me  —  the  mother  who 
gave  him  birth. 

Shame  on  the  wretch  who  struck  him,  and  prays  that 

the  blow  may  kill ! 

And  pity  for  his  mother,  if  she  be  living  still ! 
May  God  in  mercy  aid  him  his  black  crime  to  atone, 
And  help  me  to  forgive  him — I  cannot  do  it  alone ! 


THE  OLD  MAN  MEDITATES 

NAY,  Maggie,  let  my  old-style  fancies  be — 

I'm  sorry  that  you  interrupted  me ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  press  a  pretty  hand  like  this, 

And  taste  the  flavor  of  a  grandchild's  kiss ; 

I  love  to  draw  you  to  me  tender-wise, 

And  look  off  at  my  boyhood  through  your  eyes 

(For  they  are  telescopes  of  wondrous  view 

That  bring  me  back  a  girl  that  looked  like  you); 

Your  voice  is,  as  you  just  now  used  it  last, 

A  silver  key  that  takes  me  through  the  past ; 

And  now  you're  here,  you  girl-witch,  you  shall  stay, 

But  still  I'd  rather  you  had  kept  away. 

For  I've  been  sitting  here  an  hour,  I'll  Own, 
Catching  some  thoughts  a  man  holds  best  alone ; 
And  shadows  on  my  poor  old  soul  have  found 
That  might  feel  chilly  like,  to  folks  around. 
I've  seen  the  sun  go  sailing  out  of  sight, 
Far  from  the  gloomy,  shifting  shores  of  night, 
And  wondered  (though  perhaps  'twas  wicked)  why 
God  would  not  swing  those  gold  doors  of  the  sky, 


94 


FARM    BALLADS 


And  take  me  from  this  world,  that's  grown  so  strange, 
To  heaven,  where  maybe  fashions  do  not  change  ; 
For  I  am  like  a  gnarled  and  withered  tree 
With  a  new  growth  of  forest  shading  me. 

The  world  keeps  newing  so ! — they  fashion  it 

So  old  men  find  no  place  wherein  to  fit. 

"  On  and  right  on  !"  leaps  hot  from  every  tongue ; 

"Live    while    you    live!"   and    "Go    it    while    you're 

young !" 

An  average,  moderate  life,  if  these  things  last, 
Will  be  among  the  lost  arts  of  the  past ; 
These  rushing  days  of  lightning  and  of  steam 
Push  everything  out  into  some  extreme. 
The  rich  grow  richer,  smarter  grow  the  smart ; 
It's  harder  for  the  rest  to  get  a  start; 
And  Wholesale  grows  more  Wholesale  every  day, 
And  Retail  has  to  stand  back  out  the  way. 
It's  hard  to  tell,  'mid  all  Progression's  jumps, 
How  far  this  world  will  make  up  into  lumps. 
Farewell,  old  churn,  and  dasher  fringed  with  cream, 
These  times  when  cows  are  all  but  milked  by  steam  ! 
And  in  the  bustling  dairy  may  be  found 
Batter  by  tons,  instead  of  by  the  pound  ; 
While  several  of  the  corner  groceries  keep 
Its  bogus  brother,  oleomargarine,  cheap ! 

Good-bye,  old  country  mill  of  water-power : 

This  steam  one  does  your  week's  work  in  an  hour ! 

Adieu,  gas,  tallow,  kerosene,  and  whale: 

The  blue-eyed,  earth-born  lightning  makes  you  pale  ! 


THE   OLD   MAN   MEDITATES  95 

You  sailing  craft,  make  wide  your  fluttering  crown, 
Lest  the  great  fire-fed  frigate  run  you  down  ! 
Old-fashioned  politics,  cease  your  mild  strife, 
When  men  can  say  "  An  office  or  your  life !" 
And  you,  small  rogues,  ere  you  so  guilty  feel 
Because  a  thousand  dollars  you  may  steal, 
Look  at  that  scamp  of  sanctimonious  style, 
Who  pilfers  millions  with  unfearing  smile  ! 

Once  I  my  sorrel  nag  in  peace  could  drive, 

With  some  fair  chance  of  reaching  home  alive; 

Now,  every  other  mile  a  sign-board  bars, 

With  "  Railroad  Crossing :  look  out  for  the  Cars." 

These  cars — they  carry  thousands  in  a  day, 

And  maybe  take  some  that  had  better  stay ; 

While  often,  in  a  crash  of  wail  and  woe. 

They  take  folks  where  they  do  not  want  to  go ! 

And  I  have  heard  and  read  distressing  things 

Of  railroad  cliques,  monopolies,  and  rings : 

I've  tried  to  understand  their  "  stock  reports," 

Their  "bulls"  and  "bears,"  their  curious  "longs"  and 

"shorts ;" 

Wherefrom  the  most  that  I  can  calculate 
Is,  if  to  fall  among  them  is  your  fate, 
Your  heart,  ere  many  months,  will  sing  the  song, 
"  My  pocket's  short,  my  countenance  is  long." 
It  may  be  right,  the  way  those  fellows  do  it, 
But  old  men  cannot  fit  themselves  down  to  it ! 

Once  all  my  worries  (and  a  plenty,  too) 
Were  kind  of  circumscribed  to  folks  I  knew; 


96  FARM    BALLADS 

But  now  the  telegraph  and  papers  try 

To  bring  this  whole  world  underneath  the  eye, 

And  my  old  fool  heart  into  sorrow  drive 

O'er  deaths  of  folks  I  didn't  know  were  alive. 

It  is  an  interesting  fact  to  know 

That  news  can  sweep  across  the  country  so ; 

But  it  gets  out  of  breath,  I  calculate, 

And  sometimes  fails  to  tell  the  story  straight ; 

And  talk  that's  false,  or  frivolous,  or  too  small, 

The  slower  it  goes,  the  better  for  us  all. 

It's  smart,  this  flashirig  news  from  shore  to  shore, 

But  old  men  value  peace  a  good  deal  more. 

In  the  hay-field  how  gallant  and  how  blithe 

Sang  their  loud  song  my  whetstone  and  my  scythe ! 

How  in  the1  dewy  morning  used  to  pass 

My   bright  blade's   whisper    through    the    shuddering 

.    grass ! 

And  gayly  in  the  harvest  fields  of  old 
My  sickle  gathered  God's  most  precious  gold. 
But  now  the  patent  reaper  rattles  there, 
The    men    it    drove    out    gone  —  the     Lord    knows 

where. 

It  brags  and  rattles  through  the  field  in  haste, 
Gathers  the  harvest — what  it  does  not  waste — 
And  leaves  not  much  for  poor  old  men  like  me, 
Except  to  sit  upon  the  fence  and  see. 
God  bade  man  till  the  soil ;  but  it  would  seem 
He's  shirked  it  off  on  horses,  steel,  and  steam. 
It's  well — if  he  don't  use  the  extra  time 
In  wicked  mischief  or  mischievous  crime. 


"YOUR    GRANDAM    MADE    HER    OWN    TRIM    WEDDING-DRESS  : 


THE   OLD   MAN   MEDITATES  97 

This  giving  Work  the  go-by  may  be  smart, 
But,  I  have  noticed,  doesn't  improve  the  heart. 
I  know  I'm  'way  behind  these  rushing  days, 
But  still  I  like  the  good  old  working  ways ! 

Your  grandam  made  her  own  trim  wedding-dress, 

And  fitted  it,  and  wove  it  too,  I  guess ; 

There  never,  Maggie,  was  a  witching  elf 

That  went  past  her — not  even  you  yourself. 

You  have  her  gentle  eyes,  her  voice,  her  touch — 

But,  sakes !  you  cost  a  hundred  times  as  much  ! 

They've  had  to  flute,  and  flounce,  and  trick  you  out, 

And  squeeze,  and  pull,  and  jerk  you  all  about, 

Till  it's  a  question  rather  hard  to  meet, 

How  you  came  through  it  all  so  good  and  sweet ! 

You  wouldn't  have  had  to  bother  in  that  way, 
If  some  cute  Yankee  had  not,  one  fine  day, 
Placed,  with  eyes  made  by  money-hunger  keen, 
A  sewing  circle  in  one  small  machine, 
Which  hungers  after  cloth  and  thread  ;  and  so 
Dress  often  takes  up  some  new  furbelow. 
My  old-style  pocket  with  gaunt  pain  it  fills ; 
But  I  won't  groan — I  do  not  pay  the  bills ! 

Church  matters,  maybe,  ain't  for  me  to  name, 
For  true  religion  always  keeps  the  same ; 
And  they  may  higgle,  contradict,  and  doubt, 
And  turn  the  good  old  Bible  wrong  side  out; 
But  they  can't  change,  however  hard  they  try, 
Arrangements  on  the  top  side  of  the  sky. 


98  FARM    BALLADS 

I  like  to  read  the  new  way  that  'tis  told — 

It  often  helps  me  understand  the  old ; 

But  when  my  daily  prayers  I  come  to  say, 

I  think  I'll  use  the  good  old-fashioned  way. 

He  taught  that  grand  old  prayer  to  us,  you  know — 

Twas  more  than  eighteen  hundred  years  ago; 

And  if  its  words  were  anyway  amiss, 

He'd  probably  have  told  us  long  ere  this. 

Leastways,  He's  heard  me  so  far  in  that  style, 

And  I'll  hang  to  it  yet  a  little  while. 

Ah  me !  this  matter's  just  like  all  the  rest: 

Old  ways  for  old  men  surely  are  the  best. 

But  whatsoever  changes  I  can  name, 

One  institution  always  keeps  the  same, 

And  soon  or  late  enacts  its  noble  part, 

And  that's  the  grand  and  glorious  human  heart. 

Perhaps  it  lurks  in  wretchedness  and  slime — 

Is  dragged  by  Passion  through  the  waves  of  crime; 

Or  Indolence  around  its  couch  may  creep, 

And  lull  it  for  a  season  into  sleep; 

Or  Selfishness  may  ravage  all  about, 

Eat  its  supplies  and  wellnigh  starve  it  out; 

But  when  it  can  the  body's  grossness  shed, 

The  godlike  human  heart  comes  out  ahead ! 

No,  Maggie,  do  not  go  away  from  me, 

But  turn  your  eyes  round  here  where  I  can  see ; 

They  show  me   that   there's    much   that   earth  can 

give 
Designed  to  coax  an  old  man  yet  to  live ; 


THE   OLD   MAN    MEDITATES  99 

The  tender,  true  heart  you  have  always  shown 
In  brightening  up  my  dim  life  with  your  own, 
The  way  you've  treated  me — with  as  much  grace 
As  if  I  owned  three-quarters  of  this  place, 
While  you  and  all  your  folks  are  well  aware 
My  purse  is  full  of  poverty  to  spare — 
Show,  in  the  sandy  shifting  of  life's  ways, 
That  Love's  first  fashion  still  among  us  stays ; 
And  that  young  fellow  coming  down  the  lane 
Will  help  to  make  my  meaning  doubly  plain. 


OTHER    POEMS 


OTHER   POEMS 


APPLE-BLOSSOMS 

UNDERNEATH  an  apple-tree 

Sat  a  maiden  and  her  lover: 
And  the  thoughts  within  her  he 

Yearned,  in  silence,  to  discover. 
Round  them  danced  the  sunbeams  bright, 

Green  the  grass-lawn  stretched  before  them ; 
While  the  apple-blossoms  white 

Hung  in  rich  profusion  o'er  them. 

Naught  within  her  eyes  he  read 

That  would  tell  her  mind  unto  him; 
Though  their  light,  he  after  said, 

Quivered  swiftly  through  and  through  him ; 
Till  at  last  his  heart  burst  free 

From  the  prayer  with  which  'twas  laden, 
And  he  said,  "  When  wilt  thou  be 

Mine  for  evermore,  fair  maiden  ?" 


104  OTHER  POEMS 

"When,"  said  she,  "the  breeze  of  May 

With  white  flakes  our  heads  shall  cover, 
I  will  be  thy  brideling  gay — 

Thou  shalt  be  my  husband-lover." 
"  How,"  said  he,  in  sorrow  bowed, 

"  Can  I  hope  such  hopeful  weather  ? 
Breeze  of  May  and  Winter's  cloud 

Do  not  often  fly  together." 

Quickly  as  the  words  he  said, 

From  the  west  a  wind  came  sighing, 
And  on  each  uncovered  head 

Sent  the  apple-blossoms  flying: 
" '  Flakes  of  white  !'  thou'rt  mine,"  said  he, 

"Sooner  than  thy  wish  or  knowing!" 
"  Nay,  I  heard  the  breeze,"  quoth  she. 

"When  in  yonder  forest  blowing." 


APPLES   GROWING 

UNDERNEATH  an  apple-tree 

Sat  a  dame  of  comely  seeming, 
With  her  work  upon  her  knee, 

And  her  great  eyes  idly  dreaming. 
O'er  the  harvest-acres  bright, 

Came  her  husband's  din  of  reaping; 
Near  to  her  an  infant  wight 

Through  the  tangled  grass  was  creeping. 

On  the  branches  long  and  high, 

And  the  great  green  apples  growing, 
Rested  she  her  wandering  eye, 

With  a  retrospective  knowing. 
"This,"  she  said,  "the  shelter  is, 

Where,  when  gay  and  raven-headed, 
I  consented  to  be  his, 

And  our  willing  hearts  were  wedded. 

"  Laughing  words  and  peals  of  mirth 
Long  are  changed  to  grave  endeavor ; 

Sorrow's  winds  have  swept  to  earth 
Many  a  blossomed  hope  forever. 


106  OTHER   POEMS 

Thunder-heads  have  hovered  o'er — 
Storms  my  path  have  chilled  and  shaded 

Of  the  bloom  my  gay  youth  bore, 
Some  has  fruited — more  has  faded." 

Quickly,  and  amid  her  sighs, 

Through  the  grass  her  baby  wrestled, 
Smiled  on  her  its  father's  eyes, 

And  unto  her  bosom  nestled. 
And  with  sudden,  joyous  glee, 

Half  the  wife's  and  half  the  mother's, 
"Still  the  best  is  left,"  said  she: 

"  I  have  learned  to  live  for  others." 


THE   CHRISTMAS-TREE 

WHERE  grows  the  Christmas-tree — 
The  green,  deep-rooted  Christmas-tree? 

By  what  brave  toil,  in  what  rich  soil, 

Can  spring  the  blooming  Christmas-tree  ? 

Is  it  from  prairies  broad  and  deep 

Where  future  harvests  softly  sleep, 

And  flocks  of  acres,  far  and  free, 

Lie  level  as  a  waveless  sea  ? 

Or  is  it  where  a  breeze-skein  twines 

Between  the  lofty-plumaged  pines  ? 

Or  where  a  stealthy  languor  roves 

Among  the  Southland  orange-groves? 

Or  blooms  it  best  'mid  city  homes, 

With  Wealth's  unnumbered  spires  and  domes  ? 

Or  is  it  where,  through  changeful  day, 

The  mountain  shadows  creep  and  play, 

And  swift  a  gleaming  sun-flood  rides 

Along  the  tall  cliff's  dappled  sides  ? 
High  grows  the  Christmas-tree, 
The  sweet,  leve-planted  Christmas-tree — 

Where'er  extends  the  hand  of  friends; 
Wherever  heart-caressings  be. 


108  OTHER   POEMS 

What  bears  the  Christmas-tree — 
The  bright,  rich-fruited  Christmas-tree? 
What  gather  they,  expectant-gay, 

Who  throng  around  the  Christmas-tree  ? 
.        Leaves  picked  by  love-instructed  art 
From  off  the  branches  of  the  heart ; 
Fruits  culled  from  every  tree  and  vine 
Where  zephyrs  float  and  sunbeams  shine. 
Whate'er  can  brighten  to  our  gaze 
The  trembling  dawn  of  childhood  days; 
Whate'er  can  feed  more  clear  and  high 
The  flame  of  youth's  expectant  eye; 
Whate'er  can  make  more  richly  good 
The  blood  of  man  or  womanhood, 
Or  bid  old  age  look  smiling  round 
At  gems  of  earth-joy  newly  found ; 
Whate'er  can  say,  "  While  strength  endures, 
My  life  has  love  and  help  for  yours." 
Rich  glows  the  Christmas-tree, 
The  heart-protected  Christmas-tree — 
With  tokens  dear  that  bring  more  near 
God's  earth-lent  love  to  you  and  me. 


THE    SWEET,    LOVE-PLANTED    CHRISTMAS-TREE  ' 


AUTUMN  DAYS 

YELLOW,  mellow,  ripened  days, 

Sheltered  in  a  golden  coating ; 
O'er  the  dreamy,  listless  haze, 

White  and  dainty  cloudlets  floating; 
Winking  at  the  blushing  trees, 

And  the  sombre,  furrowed  fallow ; 
Smiling  at  the  airy  ease 

Of  the  southward-flying  swallow: 
Sweet  and  smiling  are  thy  ways, 
Beauteous,  golden  Autumn  days ! 

Shivering,  quivering,  tearful  days, 

Fretfully  and  sadly  weeping ; 
Dreading  still,  with  anxious  gaze, 

Icy  fetters  round  thee  creeping; 
O'er  the  cheerless,  withered  plain, 

Wofully  and  hoarsely  calling; 
Pelting  hail  and  drenching  rain 

On  thy  scanty  vestments  falling. 
Sad  and  mournful  are  thy  ways, 
Grieving,  wailing  Autumn  days ! 


THE   FADING   FLOWER 

THERE  is  a  chillness  in  the  air — 
A  coldness  in  the  smile  of  day ; 

And  e'en  the  sunbeam's  crimson  glare 
Seems  shaded  with  a  tinge  of  gray. 

Weary  of  journeys  to  and  fro, 
The  sun  low  creeps  adown  the  sky ; 

And  on  the  shivering  earth  below, 
The  long,  cold  shadows  grimly  lie. 

But  there  will  fall  a  deeper  shade, 
More  chilling  than  the  Autumn's  breath 

There  is  a  flower  that  yet  must  fade, 
And  yield  its  sweetness  up  to  death. 

She  sits  upon  the  window-seat, 
Musing  in  mournful  silence  there, 

While  on  her  brow  the  sunbeams  meet, 
And  dally  with  her  golden  hair. 

She  gazes  on  the  sea  of  light 
That  overflows  the  western  skies, 


THE   FADING   FLOWER  III 

Till  her  great  soul  seems  plumed  for  flight 
From  out  the  window  of  her  eyes. 

Hopes  unfulfilled  have  vexed  her  breast, 
Sad  smiles  have  checked  the  rising  sigh ; 

Until  her  weary  heart  confessed, 
Reluctantly,  that  she  must  die. 

And  she  has  thought  of  all  the  ties — 
The  golden  ties— that  bind  her  here ; 

Of  all  that  she  has  learned  to  prize, 
Of  all  that  she  has  counted  dear ; 

The  joys  of  body,  heart,  and  mind, 
The  pleasures  that  she  loves  so  well ; 

The  grasp  of  friendship,  warm  and  kind, 
And  love's  delicious,  hallowed  spell. 

And  she  has  wept,  that  she  must  lie 
Beneath  the  snow-wreaths,  drifted  deep, 

With  no  fond  mother  standing  nigh, 
To  watch  her  in  her  silent  sleep. 

And  she  has  prayed,  if  it  might  be 

Within  the  reach  of  human  skill, 
And  not  averse  to  Heaven,  that  she 

Might  live  a  little  longer  still. 

But  earthly  hope  is  gone ;  and  now 
Comes  in  its  place  a  brighter  beam, 

Leaving  upon  her  snowy  brow 
The  impress  of  a  heavenly  dream : 


112  OTHER   POEMS 


That  she,  when  her  frail  body  yields, 
And  fades  away  to  mortal  eyes, 

Shall  burst  through  Heaven's  eternal  fields, 
And  bloom  again — in  Paradise. 


PICNIC    SAM 

You  youngsters  who  haven't  heard  of  Picnic  Sam, 
Just  gather  up  around  here  where  I  am, 
And  listen  sharp  while  memory  wanders  through  him, 
And  brings  out  what  he  seemed  like  when  I  knew  him. 
He  lived  in  one  of  those  high-stretched  affairs 
Called  tenements— up  any  amount  of  stairs ; 
His  room  there,  when  the  tired  streets  he  forsook, 
Was  just  what  room  he  crowded  in  and  took. 
Though  he  "  lived  high,"  he  never  had  the  gout, 
And  for  the  most  part  took  his  dinners  out. 
Breakfast  and  supper  were  not  in  his  way; 
His  motto  always  was,  One  meal  per  day; 
Or  rather,  maybe,  when  you  squarely  met  it, 
One  meal  per  day,  provided  I  can  get  it. 
His  garments — well,  you've  stood  and  looked,  perhaps, 
At  those  plump,  little,  beaming,  made-up  chaps, 
With  nobby  coats,  and  smiling,  painted  faces, 
The  clothing  dealer  in  his  window  places 
(To  make  meat  children  envious,  I  suppose); 
Well,  Sam  wasn't  dressed  at  all  like  one  of  those. 
Raiment  like  his  no  lively  lad  enjoys ; 
It  had  been  cut  for  several  different  boys, 


114  OTHER  POEMS 

And,  taking  garments  as  they  come  and  go, 
He  had  about  one  suit— or  nearly  so. 
His  face  suggested,  to  the  casual  sight, 
A  bull-dog's  when  he's  spoiling  for  a  fight; 
And  on  it  might  be  traced  full  many  a  streak, 
As  though  it  were  not  laundered  once  a  week. 
And  yet  his  eyes  were  handsome,  for  a  fact 
(That  is,  of  course,  the  one  that  was  not  blacked, 
For  he  had  fighting — more  or  less — to  do) ; 
But  his  well  eye  looked  rather  good  and  true. 

You  youngsters,  gather  round  here  where  I  am — 
I'll  tell  you  why  they  called  him  Picnic  Sam. 
This  young  home-heathen  had,  by  day  and  night, 
A  genuine  first-class  picnic  appetite ; 
And,  with  a  zeal  good  children  stood  in  fear  of, 
Attended  every  picnic  he  could  hear  of. 
When  Sunday-schools  were  going  to  have  "  a  spread," 
He'd  always  join,  a  week  or  two  ahead ; 
And  though  no  "verses"  he  had  ever  learned, 
Tried  to  look  serious  like  and  deep  concerned, 
And  (if  some  good  boy  he  was  sitting  near) 
Would  answer  every  question,  loud  and  clear. 
Twas  strange,  when  near  the  time  of  feasting  came, 
How  sure  a  school  was  to  get  Samuel's  name. 
"  Why,"  said  a  teacher,  rather  prone  to  scoff, 
"  He'll  smell  a  picnic  full  a  fortnight  off." 
Twas  strange,  in  different  schools  he  ravaged  round  in, 
What  various  kinds  of  classes  he'd  be  found  in. 
Three  times  or  more,  he  gravely  tried  to  pass 
As  member  of  an  old  folks'  Bible  class ; 


PICNIC    SAM  115 

And  once  appeared  (rough  brickbat  among  pearls) 
In  a  small,  timid  infant  class  of  girls ! 
But,  in  whatever  company  he  came, 
His  appetite  stood  by  him  all  the  same. 

No  picnic  near,  in  weather  foul  or  pleasant, 

But  Sam  and  stomach  managed  to  be  present ; 

And  when,  with  innocent,  unconscious  air, 

He  placed  himself  at  table,  firm  and  square, 

With  one  eye  partly  closed,  the  other  looking 

Intently  at  the  different  styles  of  cooking; 

And  when,  with  savage-gleaming  knife  and  fork, 

He  brought  himself  down  seriously  to  work, 

And  marched  through  every  dish  in  conquering  glory, 

And  ravaged  all  the  adjacent  territory, 

Making  the  table  for  some  distance  round 

Look  like  a  fiercely  hard-fought  battle-ground, 

A  smile  upon  his  placid  face  would  fall, 

As  if  life  wasn't  a  failure,  after  all. 

But  when  the  exciting  dinner-hour  was  gone, 
Sam  always  seemed  uncalled  for  and  alone ; 
Felt  snubbed  and  frozen  and  made  quiet  game  of: 
Slights  that  he  didn't  even  know  the  name  of, 
But  which  he  felt  as  keenly  (do  not  doubt  it) 
As  if  some  foe  had  told  him  all  about  it. 
He  always  felt  by  that  vague  feeling  haunted 
That  hangs  around  folks  when  they  are  not  wanted. 

Well,  on  one  day  particularly  fine, 
Sam  felt  himself  invited  to  help  dine 


Il6  OTHER    POEMS 

With  (in  a  small  grove,  shady,  fresh,  and  cool) 

A  recently  discovered  Sunday-school : 

Which,  when  he'd  joined,  he'd  muttered,  "  This  '11  pass, 

It's  a  swell  crowd  ;  the  board  '11  be  first-class." 

And  so  it  was ;  and  for  an  hour  or  more 

Sam  slew  things  as  he  never  had  before, 

Wondering,  with  a  gastronomic  smile. 

Where  all  these  victuals  'd  been  all  this  long  while; 

And  made  the  teachers  feel  a  great  surprise 

That  they'd  so  overrated  their  supplies ; 

And  in  his  stomach  could  not  but  confess 

That  life  to-day  was  one  good  square  success. 

Then,  after  dinner,  feeling  cute  and  smart, 
He  tried  to  make  a  little  social  start; 
And  frisk  and  frolic  round,  like  any  other, 
And  be  accepted  as  a  boy  and  brother. 
But  all  the  children  shrank,  with  scarce-hid  loathing, 
From  a  strange  lad  in  such  imperfect  clothing ; 
And  soon  Sam's  face  a  misty  sadness  wore, 
As  if  to  say,  "I  b'lieve  I'm  snubbed  once  more." 
He  tried  to  put  them  under  obligations 
With  street  accomplishments  and  fascinations  : 
In  turning  somersaults  and  hand-springs  led  ; 
Whistled  and  sang,  danced,  stood  upon  his  head  ; 
E'en  tried  a  friendly  sparring  match :  till  taken 
Right  in  the  act,  misunderstood,  and  shaken 
(By  the  strong  mother  of  the  lad  he  battled), 
Till  the  provisions  in  him  fairly  rattled. 
But  whatsoe'er  he  did,  discreet  or  bold, 
It  seemed  to  drive  him  farther  in  the  cold. 


PICNIC    SAM  117 

The  grove  was  near  a  river ;  on  whose  brink 
Samuel  sat  down,  with  lots  of  time  to  think, 
And  watch  some  light  boats  swiftly  past  him  go, 
With  happy  children  flitting  to  and  fro, 
Content  to  see  htm  safe  and  dry  on  land  : 
Sam  muttered,  "  No,  I  ain't  much  in  demand." 

Just  then  a  trim  young  girl  came  tripping  by, 
With  golden  hair,  and  more  than  handsome  eye ; 
And  Sam  remarked,  his  face  full  of  glad  creases, 
"  That's    the    smart   girl    that    scooped    'em    speakin' 

pieces  ; 

I  wonder  if  she  learned  hers  like  a  song, 
Or  made  the  speech  up  as  she  went  along? 
She  came  out  first,  though  last  upon  the  track, 
But  spoke  so  long  it  held  the  dinner  back; 
Still,  what  she  said  was  sweet  an'  soothin'  rather, 
'Bout  how  'We  all  are  children  of  one  Father.' 
If  that's  so,  she's  half-sister  unto  me — 
At  least  I  think  I'll  speak  to  her,  and  see." 
Then,  thinking  pleasantly  to  clear  the  way, 
He  shouted,  "Miss,  this  'ere's  a  pleasant  day!" 
But  she  flounced  on,  more  haughty  than  before  ; 
And  Sam  remarked,  "  I  b'lieve  I'm  snubbed  once  more." 

While,  roughly  sad,  the  boy  sat  musing  yet, 
He  heard  a  shout,  "  Help !  help !  our  boat's  upset !" 
And,  following  with  his  eyes  the  fear-edged  scream, 
Sam  saw  three  children  struggling  in  the  stream. 
And  two  were  rescued;  one  went  'neath  the  wave; 
The  waters  closed  above  her  like  a  grave. 


Il8  OTHER  POEMS 

She  sank,  apparently  to  rise  no  more, 

While  frantic  crowds  ran  up  and  down  the  shore, 

And,  'mid  the  turmoil,  each  one  did  his  best, 

Shouting  first-class  instructions  to  the  rest. 

"  It's  the  swell  girl,"  thought  Sam,  "  that's  made  this 

row ; 

I  wonder  how  she  likes  the  weather  now? 
I'd  save  her — if  it  wasn't  too  much  bother — 
'Good  deeds  for  evil — children  of  one  Father' — 
I  rather  think  she's  gone  down  there  to  stay ; 
She  can't  be  yelled  up,  if  they  try  all  day. 
Wonder,  if  I  should  save  her,  'twould  be  bold  ? 
I've  dove  for  pennies — s'pose  I  dive  for  gold?" 
Then,  throwing  off  his  coat — what  there  was  of  it — 
He  plunged  into  the  water,  rose  above  it, 
Plunged  in  again,  and  came  once  more  to  air, 
Grasping  a  pretty  golden  tress  of  hair, 
And  soon  strong  arms  were  stretched  to  her  from  shore; 
And  soon  she  raised  her  eyes,  and  lived  once  more. 

But  Sam,  poor  boy,  exhausted,  choked,  and  beaten 
With  the  prodigious  dinner  he  had  eaten, 
Strangled  and  sank  beneath  the  river's  brim  ; 
And  no  one  seemed  to  care  to  dive  for  him. 
And  when  at  last  he  came  out,  with  "  a  haul," 
The  school  had  one  dead  pupil,  after  all. 

Poor  drenched,  dead  hero ! — in  his  tattered  dress, 
Sam  now  was  a  society  success. 
They  crowded  round  the  poor  boy  as  he  lay, 
And  talked  about  him  in  a  mournful  way ; 


PICNIC  SAM  119 

And  from  the  teachers  efforts  did  not  lack 
To  resurrect  and  bring  their  scholar  back ; 
But  useless  was  their  toil,  do  all  they  could, 
Sam  and  his  great  soul  had  gone  on  for  good. 

Nothing  too  nice  that  could  be  done  and  said 
For  this  poor  fellow — now  that  he  was  dead. 
His  casket  was  the  richest  and  the  best; 
He  went  to  his  own  funeral  nicely  dressed ! 
They  rigged  him  out  in  very  pretty  trim ; 
A  long,  first-class  procession  followed  him, 
That  reached  the  farthest  distance  up  and  down 
Of  any  often  witnessed  in  that  town ; 
And  all  the  children,  shedding  tears  half  hid, 
Threw  evergreens  upon  Sam's  coffin-lid. 

You  youngsters  tempted  scornfully  to  smile, 
If  a  poor  boy  doesn't  come  up  to  your  style, 
Or  shrink  from  him  as  though  perhaps  he'll  bite  you, 
Because  he  has  some  points  that  don't  delight  you, 
Or  think,  because  your  "set"  can  do  without  him, 
There's  nothing  that's  desirable  about  him, 
Just  recollect  that  squeamishness  is  sham, 
And  drop  a  kind  thought  on  brave  Picnic  Sam. 


ONE   AND   TWO 

IF  you  to  me  be  cold, 

Or  I  be  false  to  you, 
The  world  will  go  on,  I  think, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do; 
The  clouds  will  flirt  with  the  moon. 

The  sun  will  kiss  the  sea, 
The  wind  to  the  trees  will  whisper, 

And  laugh  at  you  and  me ; 
But  the  sun  will  not  shine  so  bright, 
The  clouds  will  not  seem  so  white, 

To  one,  as  they  will  to  two; 
So  I  think  you  had  better  be  kind, 

And  I  had  best  be  true, 
And  let  the  old  love  go  on,  go  on, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

If  the  whole  of  a  page  be  read, 

If  a  book  be  finished  through, 
The  world  may  read  on,  I  think. 

Just  as  it  used  to  do; 
For  other  lovers  will  con 

The  pages  that  we  have  passed, 
And  the  treacherous  gold  of  the  binding 

Will  glitter  unto  the  last. 


ONE   AND    TWO  121 

But  lids  have  a  lonely  look, 

And  one  may  not  read  the  book — 

It  opens  only  to  two : 
So  I  think  you  had  better  be  kind, 

And  I  had  best  be  true, 
And  let  the  reading  go  on,  go  on, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do. 

If  we  who  have  sailed  together 

Flit  out  of  each  other's  view, 
The  world  will  sail  on,  I  think, 

Just  as  it  used  to  do; 
And  we  may  reckon  by  stars 

That  flash  from  different  skies, 
And,  sad  to  think,  another 

May  capture  my  lost  prize ; 
But  ships  long  time  together 
Can  better  the  tempest  weather 

Than  any  other  two  ; 
So  I  think  you  had  better  be  kind, 

And  I  had  best  be  true, 
That  we  together  may  sail,  may  sail, 

Just  as  we  used  to  do. 


DEATH-DOOMED 

THEY'RE  taking  me    to   the   gallows,    mother  —  they 

mean  to  hang  me  high ; 
They're  going   to  gather  round  me  there,  and  watch 

me  till  I  die; 

All  earthly  joy  has  vanished  now,  and  gone  each  mor 
tal  hope — 
They'll  draw  a  cap  across  my  eyes,  and  round  my  neck 

a  rope; 
The  crazy  mob  will  shout  and  groan — the  priest  will 

read  a  prayer, 
The  drop  will   fall  beneath  my  feet  and  leave  me  in 

the  air. 
They  think  I  murdered  Allen  Bayne;  for  so  the  Judge 

has  said, 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead  ! 

The  grass   that  grows   in  yonder  meadow,  the  lambs 

that  skip  and  play, 
The   pebbled   brook  behind   the  orchard,  that  laughs 

upon  its  way, 
The  flowers  that  bloom   in  the  dear  old  garden,  the 

birds  that  sing  and  fly, 
Are  clear  and  pure  of  human  blood,  and,  mother,  so  am  I ! 


DEATH-DOOMED  123 

By  father's  grave  on  yonder  hill — his  name  without  a 

stain — 
I   ne'er  had    malice   in   my  heart,  or  murdered  Allen 

Bayne ! 
But  twelve  good   men   have  found  me  guilty,  for  so 

the  Judge  has  said, 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead. 

The  air  is  fresh  and  bracing,  mother;   the  sun  shines 

bright  and  high ; 

It  is  a  pleasant  day  to  live — a  gloomy  one  to  die  ! 
It   is   a  bright  and  glorious  day  the  joys  of  earth   to 

grasp- 
It  is  a  sad  and  wretched  one  to  strangle,  choke,  and 

gasp! 

But  let  them  damp  my  lofty  spirit,  or  cow  me  if  they  can  ! 
They  send  me  like  a  rogue  to  death — I'll  meet  it  like 

a  man. 
For  I  never  murdered  Allen  Bayne !  but  so  the  Judge 

has  said, 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead  ! 

Poor  little  sister  'Bell  will  weep,  and  kiss  me  as  I  lie; 
But  kiss  her  twice  and  thrice  for  me,  and  tell  her  not 

to  cry ; 
Tell  her  to  weave  a  bright,  gay  garland,  and  crown  me 

as  of  yore, 
Then  plant  a  lily  upon  my  grave,  and  think  of  me  no 

more. 


124  OTHER  POEMS 

And  tell  that  maiden  whose  love  I  sought,  that  I  was 

faithful  yet; 
But   I   must   lie   in  a  felon's  grave,  and  she  had  best 

forget. 
My  memory  is  stained  forever ;  for  so  the  Judge  has 

said, 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead  ! 

Lay  me    not  down   by  my  father's   side ;   for  once,  I 

mind,  he  said 
No  child  that  stained  his  spotless  name  should  share 

his  mortal  bed. 

Old  friends  would  look  beyond   his  grave,  to  my  dis 
honored  one, 
And  hide  the  virtues  of  the  sire  behind  the  recreant 

son. 
And  I  can  fancy,  if  there  my  corse  its  fettered  limbs 

should  lay, 
His  frowning  skull  and  crumbling  bones  would  shrink 

from  me  away ; 
But   I   swear  to   God   I'm   innocent,  and  never  blood 

have  shed  ! 
And  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead! 

Lay   me    in    my  coffin,   mother,  as   you've   sometimes 

seen  me  rest : 
One  of  my  arms  beneath  my  head,  the  other  on  my 

breast. 


DEATH-DOOMED  125 

Place  my  Bible  upon  my  heart  —  nay,  mother,  do  not 

weep — 
And  kiss  me  as  in  happier  days  you  kissed  me  when 

asleep. 
And   for  the  rest  —  for  form  or  rite — but  little   do   I 

reck ; 
But  cover  up  that  cursed  stain — the  black  mark  on  my 

neck  ! 
And  pray  to  God  for  his  great  mercy  on   my  devoted 

head  ; 
For  they'll  hang  me  to  the  gallows,  mother — hang  me 

till  I'm  dead  ! 


But  hark  !  I  hear  a  mighty  murmur  among  the  jost 
ling  crowd  ! 

A  cry!  —  a  shout!  —  a  roar  of  voices!  —  it  echoes  long 
and  loud  ! 

There  dashes  a  horseman  with  foaming  steed  and 
tightly  gathered  rein  ! 

He  sits  erect !  —  he  waves  his  hand  ! — good  Heaven  ! 
'tis  Allen  Bayne  ! 

The  lost  is  found,  the  dead  alive,  my  safety  is 
achieved  ! 

For  he  waves  his  hand  again,  and  shouts,  "  The  pris 
oner  is  reprieved  !" 

Now,  mother,  praise  the  God  you  love,  and  raise  your 
drooping  head  ; 

For  the  murderous  gallows,  black  and  grim,  is  cheated 
of  its  dead  ! 


UP  THE   LINE 

THROUGH  blinding  storm  and  clouds  of  night. 
We  swiftly  pushed  our  restless  flight; 
With  thundering  hoof  and  warning  neigh, 
We  urged  our  steed  upon  his  way 
Up  the  line. 

Afar  the  lofty  head-light  gleamed ; 
Afar  the  whistle  shrieked  and  screamed ; 
And  glistening  bright,  and  rising  high, 
Our  flakes  of  fire  bestrewed  the  sky, 
Up  the  line. 

Adown  the  long,  complaining  track, 
Our  wheels  a  message  hurried  back ; 
And  quivering  through  the  rails  ahead, 
Went  news  of  our  resistless  tread, 
Up  the  line. 

The  trees  gave  back  our  din  and  shout, 
And  flung  their  shadow-arms  about ; 
And  shivering  in  their  coats  of  gray, 
They  heard  us  roaring  far  away, 
Up  the  line. 


UP  THE    LINE  127 

The  wailing  storm  came  on  apace, 
And  dashed  its  tears  into  our  face ; 
But  steadily  still  we  pierced  it  through, 
And  cut  the  sweeping  wind  in  two, 
Up  the  line. 

A  rattling  rush  across  the  ridge, 
A  thunder-peal  beneath  the  bridge; 
And  valley  and  hill  and  sober  plain 
Re-echoed  our  triumphant  strain, 
Up  the  line. 

And  when  the  eastern  streaks  of  gray 
Bespoke  the  dawn  of  coming  day, 
We  halted  our  steed,  his  journey  o'er, 
And  urged  his  giant  form  no  more, 
Up  the  line. 


FORWARD  ! 

THE  beast  that  counts  a  heart  can  feel  it  beat — 

The  man  who  counts  a  soul  can  feel  it  yearn ; 
The  while  it  guides  his  willing,  eager  feet, 

Where  Triumph  calls,  and  Victory's  altars  burn. 

The  while  it  prompts  his  head  and  hands  to  earn 
That  which  shall  place  him  at  the  front :  the  when 

Humanity  his  merits  shall  discern, 
And  give  to  him  a  place  of  honor;  then 
Acknowledging  a  man  among  his  fellow-men1 

The  Fates,  decreed  us,  at  the  birth  of  Time, 

The  Fates  decree,  and  hold  the  fiat  still, 
That  they  who  cannot  or  who  will  not  climb, 

Be  trampled  down  by  them  who  can  and  will. 

Philanthropists  may  take  the  doctrine  ill, 
And  nobly  lift  their  suffering  fellows  high  ; 

And  he  who  strives  to  clamber  up  the  hill, 
Though  weak,  has  help,  for  God  helps  them  that  try ; 
But  he  who  will  not  strive  had  best  lie  down  and  die! 

For  hammer,  axe,  and  spade  will  vex  his  ears, 
And  spindles  whirl  about  his  idle  head ; 

The  steamer's  shriek  will  rouse  his  feeble  fears, 
The  railroad-train  will  shake  him  in  his  bed  ! 
The  nets  of  cliques  and  clans  will  round  him  spread  ; 


FORWARD!  129 

And  Time — a  chariot  to  the  man  who  strives — 

Will  be  a  funeral  car,  and  he  its  dead, 
Till  he  unto  his  charnel-home  arrives. 
A  million  men  have  lived  good  corses  all  their  lives ! 

A  tiny  floweret  blossoms  underfoot, 

And  turns  its  dainty  petals  to  the  sky ; 
Draws  life  from  earth  and  air,  through  leaf  and  root, 

While  yet  Destruction  broods  and  lingers  nigh. 

But  naught  that  seems  inaction  we  descry, 
Though  summer  wanes,  and  autumn  winds  are  cold ; 

When  effort  fails,  the  plant  is  fain  to  die ; 
Its  energies  and  days  at  once  are  told  ; 
And  soon  it  hangs  its  head  and  crumbles  to  the  mould. 

A  rainbow  arches  on  the  clouded  sky, 

But  ne'er  for  long  its  colors  flash  and  play ; 
A  comet  shines  upon  the  gazing  eye, 

But  still  is  speeding  on  its  endless  way. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars — not  one  of  them  may  stay ; 
For  not  an  orb — howe'er  it  seem  to  stand — 

But  marches  grandly  on  by  night  and  day, 
Nor  cares  nor  dares  to  halt,  without  command 
Of   Him,  the    mighty  Chief,  by  whom   the    route  was 
planned. 

There  is  not  that  in  earth,  or  air,  or  space, 
There  is  not  that  in  heart,  or  mind,  or  soul 

(Save  in  one  sacred  and  mysterious  Place), 
But  hurries  forward  to  some  future  goal, 
Or  wanders  back  to  an  inglorious  whole, 

9 


130  OTHER   POEMS 

Wherefrom  it  sprung — whereto  it  turns  to  die ; 
And  He  who  keeps  all  motion  in  control — 
Whom  change  and  dissolution  come  not  nigh — 
The  same  for  evermore — is  the  great  God  on  high. 

Man  loves  to  clamber  on  the  steeps  of  fame, 

Then  rest  awhile  his  wearied  limbs ;  and  yet 
Each  day  some  fellow-man  must  learn  his  name, 

To  stand  for  one  who  may  that  name  forget ; 

Each  hour  some  new  requirement  must  be  met; 
Each  changing  year  his  altitude  must  grow ; 

Or,  twined  about  with  Comfort's  gaudy  net, 
His  indolence  may  plot  his  overthrow, 
And  he  may  plunge  into  the  deep,  dead  gulf  below. 

Yet  many  a  knight  who  mingles  in  the  broil 

Falls,  ere  his  sun  has  reached  its  highest  place : 
Death  strikes  the  strongest  reaper  in  his  toil, 

And  stops  the  swiftest  runner  of  the  race. 

But  time  is  short,  and  death  is  no  disgrace, 
But  rather,  to  the  faithful  man,  a  friend  ; 

And  leaves  a  glory  on  the  marble  face 
Of  him  who  holds  out  faithful  to  the  end — 
Whose  ways  are  brave  and  true — so  far  as  they  extend. 

Then  forward,  men  and  women !  let  the  bell 
Of  progress  echo  through  each  wakened  mind ! 

Let  the  grand  chorus  through  our  numbers  swell — 
Who  will  not  hasten  shall  be  left  behind ! 
Who  conquers,  shall  a  crown  of  glory  find ; 


FORWARD !  131 

Who  falls,  if  faithful,  shall  but  fall  to  rise 

Free  from  the  tear -drenched  clay  that  clogs  man 
kind, 

To  where  new  triumphs  greet  his  eager  eyes ; 
FORWARD  will  ever  be  the  watchword  of  the  skies ! 


THE    SHIP-BUILDER 

ACROSS  the  foaming,  word-lashed  sea  of  thought, 

Where  heavy  craft  were  struggling  with  the  storm, 
The  winds,  one  day,  an  unknown  vessel  brought, 

Of  flaunting  streamer  and  fantastic  form. 
Old  captains  shook  their  grizzled  heads  in  doubt, 
And  vainly  strove  to  make  the  stranger  out ; 
And  critic-gunners  raised  their  ready  hand, 
To  fire  at  what  they  could  not  understand. 

But,  crowding  sail,  she  rode  the  dangerous  waves, 

Swept  past  old  wrecks  and  signals  of  distress, 
And  o'er  forgotten  hulks  and  nameless  graves, 

St'raight  glided  to  the  harbor  of  Success! 
The  weary  world  looked  for  a  little  while- 
It's  care-worn  face  grew  brighter,  with  a  smile; 
Until  its  voice  caught  rapture  from  its  gaze, 
And  swelled  into  a  thunder-peal  of  praise ! 

The  outstripp'd  jester,  smiling,  dropped  his  pun  ; 

The  sage  looked  up,  with  pleased,  instructed  eyes; 
The  critic  raised  his  double-shotted  gun, 

And  jubilantly  fired  it  at  the  skies ! 


THE    SHIP-BUILDER  133 

The  laboring  throng,  when  their  day's  toil  was  o'er, 
Crowded  along  this  unaccustomed  shore, 
And  viewed  with  wonder  and  delight  oft  told, 
The  varied  treasures  of  her  deck  and  hold. 

For  there,  arrayed  in  quaint  and  genial  pride, 
Stood  Pickwick,  captain  of  the  motley  crew ; 

The  sturdy  Samuel  Weller  by  his  side, 
And  many  a  passenger  the  people  knew ; 

And,  stored  among  this  cargo  of  new  mirth, 

Flashed  forth  the  brightest  diamonds  of  earth ; 

Treasures  of  Nature's  undissembled  arts; 

And  stores  of  food  for  hungry,  yearning  hearts. 

And  ever  as  they  gazed,  and  rushed  to  gaze, 
Came  sweeping  o'er  the  sea  another  gale, 

And  gleamed  upon  their  glad  eyes,  through  the  haze, 
The  welcome  whiteness  of  another  sail ! 

Rich  loaded  was  one  bark,  and  fair  to  see, 

But  aimed  great  guns  at  petty  tyranny  ; 

And  as  she  swiftly  glided  safe  to  land, 

Young  Captain  Nickleby  was  in  command. 

There  came  a  ship  of  stranger  seeming  still, 

With  "  Curiosities  "  in  plenty  stored  ; 
And  thousands  crowded  'round  her,  with  one  will, 

To  view  the  passengers  she  had  on  board. 
And  one  there  was — her  name  was  "  Little  Nell " — 
The  people  much  admired,  and  loved  full  well ; 
And  many  wept,  and  lingered  at  her  side, 
When,  wearily,  she  laid  her  down  and  died. 


134  OTHER   POEMS 

So  one  by  one  to  port  the  vessels  came, 

Laden  with  comforts  for  both  rich  and  poor, 
But  hurling  bolts  of  scorn-envenomed  flame 

At  tyrant,  rogue,  and  snob,  and  titled  boor. 
And  each  new  ship  the  multitude  flocked  'round, 
Rejoicing  o'er  the  treasures  that  they  found ; 
And  as  each  new  sail  flashing  came  to  sight, 
Broke  forth  a  thousand  plaudits  of  delight ! 

And  so  the  millions,  eager  to  confess 

The  pleasures  they  from  his  creations  drew, 

Hastened  to  praise,  and  glorify,  and  bless 
The  toiling  man  whose  face  they  hardly  knew, 

Who,  in  his  lonely  room,  worked  for  his  goal, 

With  busy  brain,  and  tender,  yearning  soul ; 

And  with   his  good  pen  built  and  rigged  and  manned 

The  noble  argosies  his  genius  planned. 

But  one  bright  day  the  news  gloomed  o'er  the  earth 

That  he,  beloved  guest  of  many  lands, 
Had  gone  where  first  his  clear-eyed  soul  had  birth, 

Led  by  the  pressure  of  down-reaching  hands. 
No  monarch  resting  on  his  crape-strown  bed 
Had  e'er  such  tears  of  sorrow  o'er  him  shed, 
As  this  untitled  king  of  grief  and  mirth, 
Whose  subjects  mourned  in  every  clime  of  earth ! 

O  master  of  the  heart !  if  in  yon  land 

Thou  canst  but  wander  through  its  streets  and  vales, 
And  then  before  the  countless  millions  stand 

And  tell  thy  merry  and  pathetic  tales, 


THE    SHIP-BUILDER  135 

If  thou  canst  yet  thy  daily  toil  prolong, 
Plead  for  the  right,  and  battle  with  the  wrong, 
The  happiness  of  heaven  will  o'er  thee  spread, 
For  thou  thy  path  heaven-given  still  wilt  tread ! 


HOW  WE   KEPT   THE   DAY 


THE  great  procession  came  up  the  street. 
With  clatter  of  hoofs  and  tramp  of  feet ; 
There  was  General  Jones  to  guide  the  van, 
And  Corporal  Jinks,  his  right-hand  man; 
And  each  was  riding  on  his  high  horse, 
And  each  had  epaulettes,  of  course ; 
And  each  had  a  sash  of  the  bloodiest  red, 
And  each  had  a  shako  on  his  head  ; 
And  each  had  a  sword  by  his  left  side, 
And  each  had  his  mustache  newly  dyed ; 

And  that  was  the  way 

We  kept  the  day, 

The  great,  the  grand,  the  glorious  day, 
That  gave  us— 

Hurray !     Hurray !     Hurray ! 
(With  a  battle  or  two,  the  histories  say,) 

Our  National  Independence  ! 


HOW   WE    KEPT   THE    DAY  137 


The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  loud  da  capo,  and  brazen  repeat ; 
There  was  Hans,  the  leader,  a  Teuton  born, 
A  sharp  who  worried  the  E  flat  horn ; 
And  Baritone  Jake,  and  Alto  Mike, 
Who  never  played  anything  twice  alike  ; 
And  Tenor  Tom,  of  conservative  mind, 
Who  always  came  out  a  note  behind ; 
And  Dick,  whose  tuba  was  seldom  dumb, 
And  Bob,  who  punished  the  big  bass  drum. 
And  when  they  stopped  a  minute  to  rest, 
The  martial  band  discoursed  its  best; 
The  ponderous  drum  and  the  pointed  fife 
Proceeded  to  roll  and  shriek  for  life ; 
And  Bonaparte  Crossed  the  Rhine,  anon, 
And  The  Girl  I  Left  Behind  Me  came  on  ; 

And  that  was  the  way 

The  bands  did  play 

On  the  loud,  high-toned,  harmonious  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !    Hurray !    Hurray  f 
(With  some  music  of  bullets,  our  sires  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence  ! 

in 

The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 
With  a  wagon  of  virgins,  sour  and  sweet ; 
Each  bearing  the  bloom  of  recent  date, 
Each  misrepresenting  a  single  State. 


138  OTHER  POEMS 

There  was  California,  pious  and  prim, 

And  Louisiana,  humming  a  hymn ; 

The  Texas  lass  was  the  smallest  one — 

Rhode  Island  weighed  the  tenth  of  a  ton ; 

The  Empire  State  was  pure  as  a  pearl, 

And  Massachusetts  a  modest  girl! 

Vermont  was  red  as  the  blush  of  a  rose — 

And  the  goddess  sported  a  turn-up  nose, 

And  looked,  free  sylph,  where  she  painfully  sat, 

The  worlds  she  wouldn't  give  to  remain  in  that. 

And  in  this  way 

The  maidens  gay 

Flashed  up  the  street  on  the  beautiful  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Htirray  !    Hurray  !    Hurray  ! 
(With  some  sacrifices,  our  mothers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence ! 


IV 

The  great  procession  came  up  the  street, 

With  firemen  uniformed  flashily  neat; 

There  was  Tubbs,  the  foreman,  with  a  voice  like  five, 

The  happiest,  proudest  man  alive ; 

With  a  trumpet  half  as  long  as  a  gun, 

Which  he  used  for  the  glory  of  "Number  i"; 

There  was  Nubbs,  who  had  climbed  a  ladder  high, 

And  saved  a  dog  that  was  left  to  die  ; 

There  was  Cubbs,  who  had  dressed  in  black  and  blue 

The  eye  of  the  foreman  of  Number  2. 


HOW  WE  KEPT  THE  DAY  139 

And  each  marched  on  with  steady  stride, 
And  each  had  a  look  of  fiery  pride ; 
And  each  glanced  slyly  round,  with  a  whim 
That  all  of  the  girls  were  looking  at  him ; 

And  that  was  the  way, 

With  grand  display, 

They  marched  through  the  blaze  of  the  glowing  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  t    Hurray !    Hurray  I 
(With  some  hot  fighting,  our  fathers  would  say,) 

Our  glorious  Independence ! 


The  eager  orator  took  the  stand 

In  the  cause  of  our  great  and  happy  land ; 

He  aired  his  own  political  views, 

He  told  us  all  of  the  latest  news : 

How  the  Boston  folks  one  night  took  tea — 

Their  grounds  for  steeping  it  in  the  sea; 

What  a  lot  of  Britons  our  fathers  did  kill, 

On  the  glorious  day  of  Bunker  Hill; 

He  put  us  all  in  anxious  doubt 

As  to  how  that  matter  was  coming  out; 

And  when  at  last  he  had  fought  us  through 

To  the  bloodless  year  of  '82, 

'Twas  the  fervent  hope  of  every  one 

That  he,  as  well  as  the  war,  was  done. 

But  he  continued  to  painfully  soar 

For  something  less  than  a  century  more; 


140  OTHER   POEMS 

Until  at  last  he  had  fairly  begun 
The  wars  of  eighteen-sixty-one; 
And  never  rested  till  'neath  the  tree 
That  shadowed  the  glory  of  Robert  Lee. 
And  then  he  inquired,  with  martial  frown, 
"  Americans,  must  -we  go  down  ?" 
And  as  if  an  answer  from  Heaven  were  sent, 
The  stand  gave  way  and  down  he  went. 
A  singer  or  two  beneath  him  did  drop — 
A  big  fat  alderman  fell  atop ; 

And  that  was  the  way 

Our  orator  lay, 

Till  we  fished  him  out,  on  the  eloquent  day 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !    Htirray  !    Hurray  ! 
(With  a  clash  of  arms,  Pat.  Henry  would  say,) 

Our  wordy  Independence ! 


VI 

The  marshal  his  hungry  compatriots  led, 

Where  Freedom's  tables  were  thickly  spread, 

With  all  that  man  or  woman  could  eat, 

From  crisp  to  sticky — from  sour  to  sweet. 

There  were  chickens  that  scarce  had  learned  to  crow, 

And  veteran  roosters  of  long  ago  ; 

There  was  one  old  turkey,  huge  and  fierce, 

That  was  hatched  in  the  days  of  President  Pierce  : 

Of  which,  at  last,  with  an  ominous  groan, 

The  parson  essayed  to  swallow  a  bone ; 


HOW   WE   KEPT   THE   DAY 

And  it  took  three  sinners,  plucky  and  stout, 

To  grapple  the  evil  and  bring  it  out. 

And  still  the  dinner  went  merrily  on, 

And  James  and  Lucy  and  Hannah  and  John 

Kept  winking  their  eyes  and  smacking  their  lips, 

And  passing  the  eatables  into  eclipse. 

And  that  was  the  way 

The  grand  array 

Of  victuals  vanished  on  that  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !    Hurray  /    Hurray  / 
(With  some  starvation,  the  records  say,) 

Our  well-fed  Independence! 


VII 

The  people  went  home  through  the  sultry  night, 

In  a  murky  mood  and  a  pitiful  plight ; 

Not  more  had  the  rockets'  sticks  gone  down, 

Than  the  spirits  of  them  who  had  "been  to  town"; 

Not  more  did  the  fire-balloon  collapse, 

Than  the  pride  of  them  who  had  known  mishaps. 

There  were  feathers  ruffled,  and  tempers  roiled, 

And  several  brand-new  dresses  spoiled ; 

There  were  hearts  that  ached  from  envy's  thorns, 

And  feet  that  twinged  with  trampled  corns; 

There  were  joys  proved  empty,  through  and  through, 

And  several  purses  empty,  too; 

And  some  reeled  homeward,  muddled  and  late, 

Who  hadn't  taken  their  glory  straight; 


142  OTHER   POEMS 

And  some  were  fated  to  lodge,  that  night, 
In  the  city  lock-up,  snug  and  tight; 

And  that  was  the  way 

There  was  mischief  to  pay, 
As  there  frequently  is,  at  the  close  of  the  day, 
That  gave  us — 

Hurray  !    Hurray  !    Hurray  ! 
(With  some  restrictions,  the  fault-finders  say,) 
That  which,  please  God,  we  will  keep  for  aye — 

Our  glorious  Independence! 


OUR   ARMY   OF    THE   DEAD 

BY  the  edge  of  the  Atlantic,  where  the  waves  of  Free 
dom  roar, 

And  the  breezes  of  the  ocean  chant  a  requiem  to  the 
shore, 

On  the  Nation's  Eastern  hill  -  tops,  where  its  corner 
stone  is  laid, 

On  the  mountains  of  New  England,  where  our  fathers 
toiled  and  prayed, 

Mid  old  Keystone's  rugged  riches,  which  the  miner's 
hand  await, 

Mid  the  never-ceasing  commerce  of  the  busy  Empire 
State, 

With  the  country's  love  and  honor  on  each  brave, 
devoted  head, 

Is  a  band  of  noble  heroes — is  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

On  the  lake-encircled  homestead  of  the  thriving  Wol 
verine, 

On  the  beauteous  Western  prairies,  with  their  carpet 
ing  of  green, 

By  the  sweeping  Mississippi,  long  our  country's  pride 
and  boast, 

On  the  rugged  Rocky  Mountains,  and  the  rich  Pacific 
coast, 


144  OTHER   POEMS 

In  the  listless,  sunny  Southland,  with  its  blossoms  and 

its  vines. 
On   the   bracing   Northern   hill  -  tops,  and  amid   their 

murmuring  pines, 

Over  all  our  happy  country — over  all  our  Nation  spread, 
Is  a  band  of  noble  heroes — is  our  Army  of  the  Dead. 

Not  with  musket,  and  with  sabre,  and  with  glad  heart 

beating  fast ; 
Not  with  cannon   that  had  thundered  till  the  bloody 

war  was  past ; 
Not   with  voices  that   are   shouting  with   the   vim   of 

victory's  note  ; 
Not  with  armor  gayly  glistening,  and   with   flags  that 

proudly  float ; 
Not  with  air  of  martial  vigor,  nor  with  steady,  soldier 

tramp, 
Come  they  grandly  marching  to  us  —  for  the  boys  are 

all  in  camp. 

With  forgetfulness  upon  it — each  within  his  earthy  bed, 
Waiting  for  his  marching  orders — is  our  Army  of  the 

Dead. 

Fast  asleep  the  boys  are  lying,  in  their  low  and  narrow 

tents, 
And  no  battle-cry  can  frake  them,  and  no  orders  call 

them  hence ; 
And  the  yearnings  of  the  mother,  and  the  anguish  of 

the  wife, 
Cannot  with   their    magic    presence    call    the    soldier 

back  to  life ; 


OUR  ARMY  OF   THE  DEAD  145 

And    the    brother's    manly   sorrow,    and    the    father's 

mournful  pride, 
Cannot    give    back    to    his    country   him    who   for   his 

country  died. 
They  who  for  the  trembling    Nation    in   its   hour  of 

trial  bled, 
Lie,  in  these  its  years  of  triumph,  with  our  Army  of 

the  Dead. 

When  the  years   of  Earth  are  over,  and  the  cares  of 

Earth  are  done, 

When  the  reign  of  Time  is  ended,  and  Eternity  begun, 
When  the  thunders  of  Omniscience   on  our  wakened 

senses  roll, 
And  the  sky  above  shall  wither,  and  be  gathered  like 

a  scroll ; 
When,    among   the    lofty   mountains,   and   across    the 

mighty  sea, 

The  sublime  celestial  bugler  shall  ring  out  the  reveille, 
Then    shall    march   with    brightest    laurels,    and    with 

proud,  victorious  tread, 
To   their  station   up   in   heaven,   our   Grand  Army  of 

the  Dead. 


"MENDING   THE   OLD   FLAG" 

IN  the  silent  gloom  of  a  garret  room, 

With  cobwebs  round  it  creeping, 
From  day  to  day  the  old  Flag  lay — 

A  veteran  worn  and  sleeping. 
Dingily  old,  each  wrinkled  fold 

By  the  dust  of  years  was  shaded  ; 
Wounds  of  the  storm  were  upon  its  form  ; 

The  crimson  stripes  were  faded. 

'Twas  a  mournful  sight  in  the  day-twilight, 

This  thing  of  humble  seeming, 
That  once  so  proud  o'er  the  cheering  crowd 

Had  carried  its  colors  gleaming: 
Stained  with  mould  were  the  braids  of  gold, 

That  had  flashed  at  the  sun-ray's  kissing ; 
Of  faded  hue  was  its  field  of  blue, 

And  some  of  the  stars  were  missing. 

Three  Northern  maids  and  three  from  glades 
Where  dreams  the  Southland  weather, 

With  glances  kind  and  arms  entwined. 
Came  up  the  stair  together: 


"MENDING  THE  OLD   FLAG"  147 

They  gazed  awhile,  with  a  thoughtful  smile, 
At  the  crouching  form  before  them ; 

With  clinging  holds  they  grasped  its  folds, 
And  out  of  the  darkness  bore  them. 

They  healed  its  scars,  they  found  its  stars, 

And  brought  them  all  together 
(Three  Northern  maids  and  three  from  glades 

Where  smiles  the  Southland  weather) ; 
They  mended  away  through  the  summer  day, 

Made  glad  by  an  inspiration 
To  fling  it  high  at  the  smiling  sky, 

On  the  birthday  of  our  nation. 

In  the  brilliant  glare  of  the  summer  air, 

With  a  brisk  breeze  round  it  creeping, 
Newly  bright  through  the  glistening  light, 

The  flag  went  grandly  sweeping: 
Gleaming  and  bold  were  its  braids  of  gold, 

And  flashed  in  the  sun-ray's  kissing; 
Red,  white,  and  blue  were  of  deepest  hue, 

And  none  of  the  stars  was  missing. 


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